“You know, I’m not the enemy.”

I sigh. He’s not. As much as I hated Liz defending Connor last night, she was right. He is the best kind of good guy, even if it sometimes feels like he stole my life. “I’m sorry I was shitty with you last night. I didn’t like you coming here. Didn’t like the idea of you just showing up at her bedroom door in the middle of the night.”

“We’re friends. Liz is honestly one of the best people I know.”

Yeah, that’s the problem. “Think about it from Della’s point of view before you come running here next time.”

“Say what you mean, Bradshaw.”

I roll back my shoulders. “I mean, you still have a thing for Liz. It was all over your face when you two were cuddled on the couch last night.”

“Is this about me, or is it about you?”

“If Della knew you’d come here, she’d be pissed.”

He grimaces. “Yeah, I guess. Are you two . . .?” He nods to Lizzy’s bedroom door. “Are you going to be spending time together?”

“Are you asking me if I’m going to make an honest woman out of her?”

He grunts. “You should. I don’t like the idea of you using her as an escape from your problems and then sneaking out of her bed like she’s one of your random hookups.”

“Don’t.”

He must see the warning in my eyes, because he shows both palms in surrender. “I’ll get out of the way. You sure you don’t have something going on you need to talk about?”

“I’m sure.”

He nods and heads toward the front of the house.

I sneak into her room one more time before I leave. She’s on her stomach, her head turned to the side, those crazy blond curls fanned out around her head. If it weren’t for the way she was drooling on the pillow, I might think she positioned herself like that trying to look irresistible.

But Liz doesn’t try to look irresistible. She just is. Smoothing a few locks off her face, I kiss her forehead. Because even with everything hanging over my head right now, even with Connor’s guest appearance, last night was amazing.

For maybe the first time ever, I’m thinking about . . . something more.

Chapter Eight

Liz

“Good afternoon, Miss Thompson,” Mr. Bradshaw, Sam’s father, says when he sees me walk through the bank doors on Monday. “How can we help you today?”

“Is Sam available?”

“He’s in the back office. Could I help you with something?”

“Um, no. I just needed to discuss something with Sam. Thanks.”

My stomach does a wild, fluttery flip-flop as I make my way to Sam.

When I step into the office, my first thought is that I have the wrong place, because the man behind the desk doesn’t look like the Sam I know. His face is covered in hard lines and tension, a study of stress and anger.

“It looks like you’re doing actual work in here,” I say, going for light. “Careful, someone might see you and ruin your reputation.”

His head lifts slowly, and as his eyes settle on me, it’s gratifying to see some of that tension leave his face, some of the anger leave his eyes.

But that doesn’t change what I see there. He’s working through something heavy. I have no idea what it is, but I know exactly how to help him.

He rakes his gaze over me slowly, taking in my button-up blouse, unbuttoned past my collarbone, my fitted black skirt, and my four-inch red heels. It was an outfit I chose very deliberately. It’s sexy, but not so overtly that it’s obvious I dressed for him—though I did.

I tug my lip between my teeth. I want more than his gaze on me. More than his hands, even. I want the weight of his body pressing into mine, the feel of his mouth on my skin. His eyes lift to mine, and tension fills in the air between us—the good kind of tension, the kind with snapping teeth and tongues and promise.

I reach for the door and shut it behind me. Sam lifts an amused brow, more of that anger melting away. It’s good to see the man I know back in that face. This other guy, the stranger, he scares me a little.

“Why are you here, Rowdy?”

Swallowing, I walk to behind his desk and go to the window that overlooks the side of the parking lot and the river beyond. I feel him move behind me as I pull the blinds shut. His fingers brush my neck, moving aside the few strands that have escaped the twist. My eyes float closed at the contact.

He steps closer. “You didn’t answer my question,” he whispers against my ear.

I turn to face him, but he’s too close, and even in my heels I’m staring at his chin. I crane my neck to meet his eyes. I wonder if he can tell that I’m practically trembling with nerves. With need. “I’m here to collect on your promise.”

“What promise?”

“The promise you made me at the wedding. The ideas you put in my head. You did not follow through on all the dirty things you whispered in my ear.”

He groans, low and guttural, and some of my nerves flitter away.

I grab his tie in my fist and tug him down an inch, two. “Don’t assume I’m like other girls,” I whisper against his lips.

“Oh, I know you’re not like other girls. That was never the question.” His lips are so close I can practically feel them brushing over mine as he speaks.

I want his kiss badly. Too much. So much that I step around him and away from the temptation to take it, because I don’t want to kiss him. I want him to kiss me. The distinction normally wouldn’t matter to me, but it’s different with Sam. Everything’s different with Sam.