I dip my knees just slightly, bending to her height, wanting to get closer, but it’s not close enough. My tongue seeks and finds hers, shy at first, then bolder as the kiss becomes explosive.

My palms are itching to roam. I want to touch her everywhere. I want her naked by the fire. But for now, I let this be enough. It has to be enough.

Finally she pulls back, and I let her. Her breathing is low and raspy, her chest rising and falling as though she can’t catch her breath.

I sure as hell know I can’t catch mine. She makes me forget to breathe. She makes me forget everything.

“That was . . .” She breaks off.

I silently fill in the blanks for her. Stupid. Irresponsible. Crazy.

Amazing.

She says none of those things, instead shaking her head as if to clear it.

“I’ve got to go,” she says, her hands abruptly leaving my waist as though she can’t bear to touch me.

I release her instantly, even though I ache to pull her back, just to hold her.

She starts to turn away, but first bends down to get the ice pack. The hand holding the ice moves toward my face; she pauses a moment and starts to pull her hand back, but then she frowns and decisively but gently places the ice against my nose.

“Ice that for thirty minutes,” she says, her voice soft and bossy at the same time.

“Will do,” I say gruffly. “Wouldn’t want a swollen nose to mar my otherwise perfect features.”

“No,” she says, giving me a little smile. “We wouldn’t want that.”

She turns away, and I stand like a fool, holding an ice pack to the center of my face as I watch her walk away from me.

“Olivia,” I say, the word out of my mouth before I can even register what it is I want to say.

She stops. Turns back.

Fuck. Double f**k.

I have no idea what I want to say to her. Actually, a part of me does know, which makes it even more imperative that I say nothing. This kiss needs to be a fluke. For both our sakes.

“Yeah?” she asks, the word just slightly impatient as I stand there staring at her.

Keep it light, fool. Let her know this was nothing.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” I say.

Idiot.

She rolls her eyes. “Yup.”

“Five a.m.? By the trail?”

“Same as every other day, except when you’re having a tantrum.”

“Cute,” I mutter. “And hey—”

“Yes, Paul?” she says in her impatient schoolteacher voice.

“What did you think of Kali?”

Bam. There goes her smile. And the confidence. I hate myself for relishing her discomfort.

“She’s great,” Olivia chirps. “Super cute. Very sweet.”

“Very,” I say, my tone thoughtful. “Well, good night.”

I turn back toward the fire to hide my smile at her disgruntled huff.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Olivia

I kissed Paul. I kissed Paul, I kissed Paul, I kissed Paul.

It wasn’t the first time, of course. But this time was different. The first two times, he’d initiated with the intent to drive me away.

But this time it was softer. Hotter. And infinitely more dangerous to both of us.

See, the worst part isn’t even that I kissed the guy I’m supposed to be caring for. The worst part is that I want to kiss Paul again. And again . . .

I’m lying in bed, trying to convince myself that the reason I let the kiss happen was to undo some of the damage done by that jackass in the bar. I wanted to show him that he’s not a monster. That he’s not a thing to be laughed at. I wanted him to know that he is desirable, even with scars.

But I’m lying to myself.

I wasn’t thinking about any of that when we were standing toe-to-toe in front of that fireplace. I wasn’t thinking about his issues, or my issues, or anything other than the fact that I wanted him.

I still want him.

I put my hand over my eyes and groan as the mother of all understatements rolls through my head. This is not ideal.

I don’t know when I finally fall asleep, but when my alarm goes off at five, the early wake-up call is even more brutal than usual. I swipe at the alarm, forcing myself to swing my legs over the side of the bed before I can fall back asleep. My eyes have that gritty lack-of-sleep feeling, but I barely notice, because now I can’t stop thinking about the fact that Paul’s been sleeping just down the hall, wearing nothing but boxers, and the thought makes me decidedly not sleepy.

Switching on the lamp, I move toward the dresser drawer that holds my workout gear. Suddenly a box by the door catches my eye.

A shoe box.

There’s only one other person in the house, which means there’s only one person who could have slipped the box inside the door. I picture Paul slipping into my bedroom, all muscled abs and strong arms.

Get it together.

I pick it up the box. A quick shake confirms it: definitely shoes. But not oh-so-sexy Louboutins. These are running shoes. Plain, ugly white sneakers.

A sticky note sits on top of them. On it, written in messy, guyish scrawl, is: Since you refuse to actually be fitted by the experts, I did my best to find shoes for your gait. Sorry I couldn’t find any pink ones.

Is it ridiculous that I feel all mushy inside because a guy bought me the world’s ugliest shoes? It is. I know it is.

But that doesn’t do anything to get rid of the goofy grin on my face.

A glance at the clock tells me I’ll be late for our run. He won’t be surprised—I’m always late. But I dress in a hurry anyway. Not all of my workout stuff is pink, but I go out of my way to ensure that every item I don today is, from the sports bra to the pants and right down to the socks.