Page 151 of Fake it ’Til Fall

“Don’t look smug,” she says.

“I’m not.”

“You are internally smug.”

“Can’t prove that.”

“I can sense it. I’m very gifted under pressure.”

“You’re also still wearing socks.”

“They’re load-bearing socks.”

“For what?”

“My last shred of emotional stability.”

This time, I do smile.

Barely.

Enough that her mouth softens in response before she can stop it.

Then I drag the zipper down, push my jeans off my hips, and step out of them, kicking them aside with the boots. My shirt is already gone, lost somewhere near the foot of the bed before either of us had enough sense to slow down.

Now there’s nothing between her and the fact that I’ve wanted her for longer than I was willing to admit.

Daisy looks at me.

All of me.

Her breath catches, small and honest, and that sound is worse than a hand on my skin.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Absolutely,” she says too fast. “Just doing a quick structural review.”

“Structural.”

“Yes. Load-bearing thighs. General stability. Possible zoning violations.”

I stare at her.

She blinks back, solemn as a judge, except her cheeks are on fire.

I move back toward the bed.

Her humor fades by degrees, not gone, just quieter. Waiting. Letting the wanting show through.

I stop at the edge of the mattress.

“Daisy.”

“If you want me to stop, I stop.”

Her hand reaches for mine.

She pulls me down until my palm braces beside her head and my body hovers over hers.