Page 64 of Don't Go
His forehead stayed against mine. His hand stayed at the back of my neck. "Were you going to knock?"
"I was getting there."
His thumb brushed the line of my jaw. He smiled against my mouth and let me go. He stepped back, and his hands came down to my elbows. "Are you hungry? I can make you something."
I shook my head. "No."
His eyes went past my shoulder, toward the kitchen. "You look like you need a drink." The corner of his mouth quirked before I could answer. "Sabrina."
"What?"
His eyes went to my hands. "You're wringing your fingers."
I looked down. I was. I didn't know when my hands came off his chest and went back to wringing. I made it stop.
He reached out, and he took my right hand.
I lifted my chin. "Actually, I'll take some wine."
He grinned. "There it is."
He turned, and he led me by the hand into the apartment.
There was a throw blanket kicked into a heap on one end of the couch. Books were on a shelf, on a side chair, and stacked onthe floor next to the couch. A wool sweater hung over the back of a kitchen stool. A pair of running shoes was by the door, dirty around the toes.
I liked it. It was very Beau.
He went around the kitchen island. He took down two glasses. He pulled a bottle from the rack, set it on the counter, picked up the corkscrew, and looked at me over the bottle. "I can't believe I get to pour the one and only Sabrina Vela a drink."
I leaned my forearm on the island and laughed. "It would seem that way."
He shook his head, eyes on the cork. "Sabrina, the amount of restraint you're showing right now."
I narrowed my eyes at him over the island. "Don't push it, Cross."
He laughed, pulled the cork, poured two glasses of red, slid one across the island to me, and picked up the other.
I picked up mine. I took a sip. At least Beau knew how to pick good wine.
The lights were low. The kitchen was warm. He was on the other side of the island, holding his glass, the top two buttons of his shirt undone at the collar. His eyes were on my face. They hadn't moved down to look at the dress, not since he'd let me go at the door.
That was the problem.
If he'd been looking at me with want, I'd have been fine. I knew how to take a look like that and put it back in the drawer it had come out of.
He was looking at me — eyes on my face, not moving down — only now there was something else in it.
God help me.
I lifted the glass, took a slow sip, and held it in front of my face. He set his own glass down on the counter.
"If you've changed your mind, that's okay."
I looked up at him. He didn't move. I shook my head. "I haven't changed my mind."
He held my gaze. "Sabrina."
"I'm working up to it. Give me thirty seconds."
