He laughed, smiling softly and reaching his arm over the back of the couch, bridging the divide between us. “You’re so far away. Come here.”

I scooted across the seat cushion a millimeter at a time. I was one weak moment away from pushing him back on the pillows and unleashing twenty-two years of pent-up teenage desire. My eyes remained on alert, my shoulders scrunching around my ears as if I was a turtle unsure of the world outside her shell.

He put his arm around me and cupped my shoulder with his exquisitely tingly hand. “This is better.” He kicked off his enormous black leather shoes and stretched out his long legs beneath the coffee table, making himself at home. “Why were you so angry?”

“Because I felt like you tricked me and I felt stupid for not seeing it while it was happening. I never should’ve let things get so far off track. I could’ve screwed myself out of a very important interview.”

He shifted his body weight toward mine and that made my entire body teeter on the edge, his presence creeping over me.

“Is that why you came to my room distracting me with perfume and cleavage while you asked me those awful questions?” he asked, further softening his voice.

My own voice squeaked in my throat. “I wouldn’t exactly call it cleavage. And I had to do something…”

He reached over and his hand touched mine, putting an end to my train of thought. His thumb rode across my knuckles while his remaining fingers tucked underneath to touch my palm. I sat mesmerized by his hand on mine—so innocent and sweet, and such a dangerous boundary to cross.

My heart ached and struggled. I could’ve written a surprisingly detailed inventory of the reasons I shouldn’t do this. My career, my future, Sam’s future; all tied to one moment, one act that would mean I’d crossed the line, and for what? My heart would undoubtedly get broken. Chris Penman didn’t fall for women like me.

He spread his hand over the top of mine, obscuring it beneath his fingers, strong from years of guitar playing. I tried to stop, but I couldn’t help but turn toward him as he lowered his head to mine. My eyes closed and I became painfully aware of every uncertain move my body made.

The heat radiated from him as he drew closer, time moving at a crawl, my mind moving at record speed. I desperately wanted the kiss, despite my miles-long list of doubts. I could feel it in my head before it happened—the protracted version of my teenage daydream.

He gently pulled me closer, locking his hand around my waist. His face brushed against my hair and he moved his mouth to my ear, leaving my cheek white hot and me flustered. “May I kiss you, Claire?”

Just do it already. “We shouldn’t,” I murmured, finding my face nestled in his magnificent neck, the stubble gently poking at the bridge of my nose as I recognized his smell, pure and pleasing.

He eased my hair away from my neck and his lips wandered closer to my skin. “Because we’re just friends?”

I’d have to be an idiot to be just friends with you. “I guess so.” I was ready to give in after nanoseconds of superficial protest—right when our glorious moment dove sharply and went down in flames.