I should thank him for the reminder, but that would be hypocritical of me since I have zero interest in paying attention to it. I move past the threshold and look back at him. “Is this your way of telling me you’ll only touch me if we’re pretending? Good Lord, Chapman. That’s no way to make a woman feel wanted.”

I precede him down the stairs, and as I’m approaching the second-floor landing, he gently tugs on my sleeve, halting my progress. I don’t turn back. I simply wait, a team of miniature gymnasts somersaulting in my belly.

“Is that what you think?” he asks. “That I don’t want you?”

I was kidding, although it seems I missed the mark. I’d love to see his face, but I’m afraid to move. Is his expression as intense as his voice? Are his hazel eyes crystal clear, or are they cloudy with desire? Damn, damn, damn. What’s the point of asking these questions? We should be going our separate ways so I can rejoin my family upstairs. When I spin around to tell him just that, he’s right there, a single step above me, his back against the railing and his face close enough that I can see the exquisite details of his features. And yes, his expression is intense. And his eyes are most certainly clouded with desire. “Don’t mind me, okay?” I don’t meet his gaze as I explain. “It’s been a long day, and I’m exhausted. You probably shouldn’t take anything I say to heart.”

“And yet that’s exactly what I’m doing,” he says without hesitation. “At the very least I need to clarify that I want you so fucking much, I’m aching to touch you right now. But . . .” Instead of finishing the sentence, he squeezes his eyes shut. Still, it’s not hard to figure out what he isn’t saying.

But . . . we’re not right for each other.

But . . . you’re leaving.

But . . . if we act on our attraction, one of us will get hurt—and that person is you.

I’m gripped by the certainty that a big mistake is gaining momentum and barreling in my direction. Honestly, it would be great if someone slapped some sense into me, but I have a niggling suspicion that when it comes to Dean, I’m steadily moving past the point of logic and knowingly exposing myself to heartbreak. I’m smarter than this. I know I am. I’m not interested in being anyone’s temporary diversion, and Dean’s made it abundantly clear that romance isn’t in his wheelhouse. So why is it so damn hard to listen to the warning signs?