But damn. Every time she walked into his line of vision, his gaze was drawn inexorably down to where the flash of her ankles peeked above a pair of shiny, black heels. Like the rest of her body parts, those ankles looked sleek and delicate, and he wanted to explore them at his leisure.

Ankles of all fucking things. A few more weeks in this woman’s company, and he was going to have to start asking people to cover their piano legs like some scandalized Victorian maiden.

“It’s biological,” Sophie added, continuing the conversation as though Harrison were taking part in it instead of growing hard while staring at a wall of yarn. He was beginning to realize what she saw in this place. “I read this study once that said women who are ovulating wear red without even realizing it. It’s like an advertisement for fertility.”

“I am not putting Bubbles in a walking fertility advertisement.”

She giggled. “Dogs are mostly color-blind, so I think she’ll be safe from all those unwanted male advances.”

He turned on her with a glare. “Then what the devil are we doing in a yarn store picking out colors? You’re telling me she can’t tell the difference between any of these?”

“I mean, she might like the texture of some better than others. This one is awfully soft. It’s like running your fingers through cotton candy. Here. Feel it.”

Sophie grabbed his free hand and pulled it toward a bundle of yarn the exact same color as her pants. He knew she was doing it on purpose—this slow brush of her palm against his, this fingering of textiles that made his heart pound—but it didn’t seem to matter. Whether playing or pushing, the results were always the same.

“See?” she said, casting a shy look up at him. Her fingers slipped through his. “Who wouldn’t want that against their bare skin?”

Harrison wanted to snatch his hand away, but he was stuck, transfixed by desire and his inability to withstand the power she had over him. He also wanted to tell her exactly what he was thinking: that cotton candy wasn’t his vice. Pulled taffy—that was his poison, and that was exactly what Sophie felt like. Taut muscles and soft skin, the endless tugging and straining that happened whenever she drew near.

Naturally, he could say no such thing. Even if he were a master of oratory prowess, he had no way of knowing what that kind of reaction a declaration like that would elicit. Wide-eyed shock seemed a likely possibility. Revulsion was definitely a contender. Or Sophie might, as she was doing much more often these days, laugh.

Which was why the only thing that eventually left his lips was something gruff and inadequate to capture his feelings.