Page 67 of Revenge Puck

He chuckles. “I’d catch you.”

I ignore him and go to the sofa, sinking into one of the magnificent cushions. Set the cookies on the coffee table and cross my arms. “You don’t strike me as the kind of guy who hunkers down at the end of an evening with a biography.”

He leans one shoulder against the doorframe, arms folding casually across his chest. “What do I strike you as?”

I’m unable to hold his gaze. “ESPN. Loud buddies piled in here. Ordering wings at midnight.”

A grin tugs at his mouth andthere’s that dimple again.“I mean, I’m into that, too. Occasionally.”

He saunters all the way into the room now that I’ve settled, sitting beside me, close enough that his knee touches mine when he manspreads his legs.

“Movie?”

“Yes, please.” Because if he doesn’t do something to distract me with soon, I’m going to fixate on his mouth. And hands. And the way his hair is curling at the nape of his neck as it continues to air dry. “I’m down for whatever.”

Down for whatever?Ugh. I did not say that.

Aaron reaches for the remote, thumb scrolling lazily through options. The massive screen casts a soft glow over his face, catching the bump of his nose, the delicious stubble along his jawline. His knee is still touching mine.

He doesn’t move.

Neither do I.

He settles on an old romantic comedy about a wealthy woman on a yacht who falls off the side and loses her memory—and is rescued by the carpenter who’d been building her walk-in closet.

“This good?”

“Perfect.”

The opening credits roll. The room dims, green walls almost appearing black in the low light. We’re shut off from the world in here with floor-to-ceiling windows; the chaos and noise and pollution are trapped outside.

Aaron stretches his arm along the back of the couch behind me, casually, dangling dangerously close to my cheek. I feel the warmth of him pressing into my side. The solid weight of his thigh against mine. The scent of his soap and shampoo.

Ten minutes later, I realize I haven’t seen a single thing happening in the movie, despite having watched it at least three times.

“Comfortable?” he murmurs, eyes still on the screen.

“Yes,” I lie.

I am so uncomfortable, hyper-aware of him, made worse when his hand slides from the empty space between us on the couch to my thigh, the heat from his palm branding my skin through the thick fabric of my sweatpants.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

I nod, because my voice will betray me.

His thumb shifts then. A slow, absent stroke upward.

“Juliette?”

I find my voice. “Yeah?”

“Know what I can’t stop thinking about?”

I swallow. “What can’t you stop thinking about?”

I want him to say:kissing you, touching you, going down on you…

“Your cookies.”