“I actually came in here for another bag of balls,” he says, looking around.

“They’re in the corner. I just gathered them.”

He steps toward me—likely toward the balls, but it’s the same direction. So I take a step back. He moves closer. I retreat again. All the while we’re performing this dance, our gazes are swimming in a dance of their own.

My breathing is ragged as he closes the distance between us. I lose focus on anything and everything but Cole and the circus in my chest.

I stop just in front of a tall shelving unit. Cole stops inches in front of me. His irises are pools of oceanic blue just before a storm.

Heaven help me.

My shoulders are back. My chin is lifted. Even though I’m nervous about whatever is about to happen, I’m also weirdly confident.

How can I not be? Cole makes it easy to be me. He makes it easy to like him. He makes it easy to do everything but breathe.

The air between us grows into a tizzy. I can almost hear the snaps and crackles of the electricity bolting between his body and mine.

He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t even try.

And I wish he would.

The thought—spelled out in bright, wild letters flickering through my brain like a neon sign about to fizzle out—is impossible to miss.

I want him to touch me.

A surge of anxiety swamps me as I stare into his eyes, then across his chiseled jaw, and down his thick neck. My lips part and I drag in a breath, hoping it will still my energy.

You can’t do this, Palmer. You have to be smart here.

“The answer is no,” I say, sliding a swallow down my parched throat.

The corner of his lip quirks. “I didn’t ask anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

It’s there, right in front of me—an invitation to dinner. Or to be dinner, maybe.

My knees wobble.

It’s been so long since I’ve been touched by a man. And despite my hands-off vibes, this man is still edging closer. In his unique, sweet yet so fucking sexy way.

“I know you feel this,” he says, licking his bottom lip. The moisture left in its trail is enough to nearly make me whimper.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

My words are barely a whisper as my gaze fixes on his mouth.

“Then please explain the picture you liked at midnight from three years ago.”

“My friend Val did that,” I say, my tone surprisingly calm. “She has a thing for you.”

His grin is decidedly alluring. “She does, huh?”

“I don’t get it, but whatever.”

“Right.”

He moves his arm. I take a quick, rushed breath and hold it in my lungs. My body flexes, waiting on the contact . . . which never comes.