My cheeks heat with the memory of how poorly I resisted temptation last night, and I bow my head and close my eyes, indulging in a moment and letting the memory wash over me.

“What I’d give to know what’s going through that mind of yours right now.”

I snap my head up to see Carter smiling at me. “Hey! You made it.” He’s in the same long-sleeve T-shirt and jeans he was wearing at my house this morning, but he looks a little disheveled, his thick, dark hair a mess, like maybe he just got up from a nap.

Or rolled out of someone’s bed.

Jealousy stabs my gut at the thought, but I ignore it. I move my purse from the stool I was saving for him and hang it from one of the hooks by my knees. “I saved you a seat.”

He nods but doesn’t take it. He leans against the bar and studies me. “Are you going to tell me, or aren’t you?”

My eyes go wide. “Tell you what I’m thinking? Hell no.”

“I’ll consider that a good sign.” He chuckles, and the sound skitters across my nerve endings like a sensual caress. That’s what I imagine it would be like for me to be Carter’s lover. Because it’s always been laughter and silliness for us. The flirting isn’t new. Only the touching. Only the very real possibility of crossing that line again.

Maybe that’s why it’s so easy to imagine more. Maybe that’s why, even with my rules, I want to look him in the eye and tell him I couldn’t get through the day without imagining what would have happened if I had gone home with him.

He studies my lips, hovering there for a beat before shifting downward. He scrapes that hot gaze over my breasts and hips with so much intensity that I can practically feel his hands on me.

“Carter, if you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to make decisions we’ll both regret tomorrow.”

His lips quirk, then his amusement fades in a blink and he sighs. “I’ll try to behave.”

Please don’t. I shake my head, as if I can make my sex-starved inner troublemaker go away that easily. “I asked you here because I need a favor.” I take a deep breath, telling myself that my plan is a good one, that I’m not making a terrible mistake.

“Hey, Carter!” Myla Quincy calls from across the bar. She hangs her jacket on the coatrack by the door before sauntering over to him. Myla’s a teacher at the local high school. She’s also the cheer coach and has the peppy air you’d expect from someone in that position. Never mind that she’s gorgeous. Her long, silky hair falls past her breasts in smooth layers, and her jeans and cropped sweater show off her perfect body.

She’s doing nothing more than smiling at him, and I already feel resentful, petty, and jealous. I was never the cheerleader type. Is that what Carter likes?