Page 40 of Don't Date Your Nemesis

Liam and I both placed our hands on the table, the space between us approximately the width of the Pacific Ocean, and then Xavier was making impatient gestures, and I slid my hand across the wood, and Liam slid his, and⁠—

Our fingers met.

The warmth hit me first. His hand was larger than mine, slightly calloused from years of training, and when his fingers folded over mine, the sensation traveled up my arm as if he had closed a circuit.

Neither of us moved.

I stared at our joined hands on the dark wood with his thumb resting over my knuckles, my grandmother’s ring catching the light between us, and forgot what I was supposed to be doing.

He cleared his throat, and I cleared mine.

Xavier took the photograph.

We pulled apart simultaneously, both reaching for our water glasses, and both taking very long and very necessary sips.

I was almost free. Double doors, one exit, fresh air, and then I could go home and process everything from the privacy of my tiny apartment while eating cereal directly from the box.

I pushed through the door, heel catching on the raised threshold in a way that sent me pitching forward, and for a moment I was absolutely going to eat the pavement in front of a very expensive cafe⁠—

Strong hands caught my waist and pulled me back, flush against the hard and familiar chest. Rain and musk wafted around me, and I grabbed his chest instinctively, fingers curling into the fabric of his t-shirt.

We froze.

His hands were on my hips, with his chin nearly resting on my head. We were so close, and I could feel the solid, infuriating, warm reality of him.

The hotel came back in a rush. The same hands, the same warmth, and considerably fewer clothes.

My heartbeat was doing something medically concerning.

“Let me go, Fish Boy,” I said, keeping my voice steady through sheer force of will. “I’m fine.”

“Just preventing a lawsuit, Sharma.”

But he didn’t let go.

“We haven’t signed the contract yet.”

“Future lawsuit.”

His face was inches from mine, close enough that I could see the gray of his eyes had gone darker. I remembered the same look when I was spread⁠—

No, I will not think about it.

We glared at each other with the intensity of two people who were shooting daggers because the alternative was something neither of them was ready to name.

He released me slowly, and I stepped back.

Then he leaned in, his mouth brushing my ear, voice low enough that only I could hear.

“Neon orange looks good on you.”

I blinked.

He pulled back, smirking, and turned to walk away with hands in his pockets and whistling while the words turned over in my brain.

Neon orange? I looked down and—my bra.

I gasped so hard I nearly choked on my saliva. “Asshole!”