Chapter 8

Her hand trembled as she unlocked the three deadbolts on her apartment door. Beck followed her inside, and the small space seemed to shrink around him.

Her one-bedroom apartment, her cozy sanctuary, suddenly felt cramped and inadequate. His expensive, custom-tailored suit was a stark contrast to her IKEA bookshelf and the worn, comfortable sofa. It was a collision of two different worlds, and she was standing at the epicenter.

He didn't speak, just took in his surroundings. His sharp gaze swept over the stack of novels on her coffee table, the knitted blanket draped over a chair, the framed photo of her and Paige laughing on the kitchen counter. She felt exposed, her entire life laid bare for his silent inspection.

"The first-aid kit is in the bathroom," she mumbled, needing to do something, anything, to break the tension.

She retrieved the plastic box and set it on the coffee table. "There's antiseptic and bandages."

He sat on her sofa, extending his injured hand. He made no move to tend to it himself. The message was clear.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. She knelt on the rug in front of him, her movements stiff. She uncapped the bottle of antiseptic, her fingers fumbling with the cotton ball.

As she carefully cleaned the blood from his knuckles, her fingers brushed against his skin. It was hot, electric. A jolt went through her, and she quickly pulled her hand back.

He was watching her, his gaze intense. She could feel his eyes on her face, her hair, the curve of her neck. The air grew thick, charged with an unspoken energy. The scent of his cologne mingled with the sharp smell of the antiseptic.

After applying a bandage, she scrambled to her feet, desperate to create some distance. "All done," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Can I... can I get you a glass of water?"

She didn't wait for an answer, practically fleeing to the tiny kitchen alcove. Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely hold the glass steady under the faucet.

She turned, the glass of ice water in her hand, and gasped.

He was standing right behind her. Silent. Imposing.

She jumped, startled, and the glass tilted. The entire contents-ice cubes and cold water-sloshed out, cascading directly down the front of his expensive gray trousers.

A dark, wet patch instantly spread across the fine wool, clinging to his thigh and groin, outlining the hard ridge of his arousal with shocking clarity.

Time stopped.

For three agonizing seconds, Aubree's brain simply ceased to function. Then, a small, horrified squeak escaped her lips.

"Oh my God! I am so, so sorry! I didn't mean to!"

Panic took over. Her only thought was to fix it. She grabbed a handful of paper towels from the holder on the counter. She thrust them toward him, but her hands were trembling so violently that she fumbled, stumbling forward. To catch her balance, she instinctively threw out her free hand, her palm landing flat against his abdomen, just inches from the wet fabric. The paper towels fluttered to the floor.

Her palm, separated by only a thin layer of his shirt, was pressed against the hard muscle of his stomach. A low, guttural sound was torn from his throat. His entire body went rigid.

Aubree realized what she was doing. The heat from his body scorched her palm. A blush so intense it felt like a chemical burn flooded her face, her neck, her entire body.

She tried to snatch her hand back, but his fingers shot out, clamping around her wrist like a manacle.

His grip was iron, his skin burning hot. His gray eyes had darkened to the color of slate, blazing with a raw, undisguised hunger that made the air crackle.

He didn't say a word. He didn't have to. His body's reaction was a confession.

They stood there, frozen in a tableau of excruciating intimacy. Her hand still pressed against him, his hand locking her in place. The small apartment felt like a furnace, the air thick with a dangerous, combustible tension.