Page 64 of The Apparent Trap

“That I lost my chance with you,” he says, and my stomach traitorously flips at the thought. “I’m covered in red flags.”

“Being a chef with a knife tattoo on your bicep certainly falls in that category, yes.”

He laughs, throaty, and it makes me want to be inside his sleeping bag, tracing the lines on his stupid tattoo.

“Oh to be nineteen, intoxicated, and have a dream.” The laugh has turned into a chuckle, warm. “Just the tip of the iceberg of my red flags, but yes, immediately disqualifying.”

“Why else?” I say, trying to fill my lungs, even though the cold is making it impossible to breathe as deeply as I’d like.

“Why else, what?”

“Why else is it good we have no chance?” My voice is low. I don’t know why, but in this moment I need to know. It’s dangerous being out here with him, and I have to have all the reminders.

“I’m much too old for you,” he replies immediately. “You deserve someone your own age.”

“There’s that ‘deserve’ again,” I point out.

“I could never . . .” He stops. “You do, Ezzie. You deserve someone in the same stage of life as you, who can give you the things you should have.”

Fizz. Fizz. Fizz. “Why else?”

“If our plans go really poorly, there’s a nonzero chance I could legally be your step-grandfather.”

I practically choke on my laugh. “You have to stop saying that.”

“It unfortunately has not stopped being relevant.”

“Why else?”

“It would hurt Carmen.” The biggest reason.

His eyes are practically incinerating me. I wonder what mine are doing to him; there’s so much want coursing through me, and I see it reflected in his gaze. All this saying no, all these reasons—they’re not wrong. But they’re not making me want any less.

“Why else?” I whisper.

“I ghosted you in a bar, and it would be hard to earn back your trust after behaving so poorly. And us getting involved could hurt your job; it might make people take you less seriously if you’re dating a colleague. Especially a colleague older than you and on camera. And it would be extremely awkward with your dad, in a world where you genuinely don’t need more of that. And it would complicate whatever we’re trying to do with your dad and Carmen, make our motives less unimpeachable. And if Carmen found out and got mad, she might say something to your bosses that puts you in a bad light and makes you seem unreliable. And if it hurt my relationship with Carmen, I know you’d feel responsible, and I wouldn’t want that.”

“You’ve . . .” My heart is beating fast. “You’ve given this a lot of thought.”

He nods slowly, deliberately, his expression tight. It’s strange only being able to see his face. I want to watch how his chest rises and falls. I want to see the grip in his hands. I want to know whether this is doing as much to him as it is to me. He closes his eyes for a moment, like I’m testing his willpower and it hurts.

“I know we sort of broke it a little last night . . .” he finally says. “But I think the not-touching-each-other rule you implemented was the smartest thing you’ve done.” His eyes are radiating into mine.

His words make me zero in on that want again. Hearing him say he shouldn’t makes me feral for his weight against me.

I want. I want. I want.

“What if . . .” My brain is once again getting ahead of my logic. That fizz is gaining on good sense. “I want you to touch me,” I admit. “But you’re right, we shouldn’t.”

“We shouldn’t,” he repeats, like he needs to remind himself too.

“But I . . . I can. Touch me. What if we’re just . . . here together.”

His eyes widen. It’s dark outside, but I can still see his cheeks redden. Now they match the cold red of his nose. He bites his lip, unsure, and puffs out a breath that lingers in the ice of the air. He’s so beautiful like this. It feels rare, seeing this calm, collected, solid man on the precipice of nerves, of coming undone.

And I can’t help it. I have to. I’m so turned on I reach my hand down, my pulse racing, my mind letting me pretend that it’s his hand trailing my body, his hand hemmed in by the soft interior of this warm sleeping bag. His hand slipping beneath my waistband.

The sensation is all too much, and I close my eyes. But I hear his voice, low, stern. “No, keep them open.”