“Murph?”

I pull my eyes from the spot on the floor I’ve been catatonically focused on, looking up to find him watching me with the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

“Yeah?”

“Um …” Harley shifts awkwardly, pointing behind me. “You wanna move outta the way so I can get past?”

I turn quickly, feeling my cheeks heat as I lead the way back through the kitchen. Harley follows close behind, and I can smell his intoxicating scent, feel his looming presence just over my shoulder. It overwhelms every one of my senses, and I blame it and the tequila for my embarrassing befuddlement.

“So, I’ll stop by in the morning to pick you up?” Harley checks, standing in the kitchen doorway. “Eight o’clock on the dot.”

I watch as he twirls the keys to his truck around his index finger, my eyes zeroing in on the tarnished old Stonemason ring he wears, left to him by his grandfather when he died a few years back.

“Murph?”

I jump, realizing once again that I’ve been staring at him like a total weirdo. Meeting his eyes, I nod again, swallowing hard. My throat is suddenly dry, and my tongue feels like sandpaper as I clear my throat, continuing regardless of the consequences. “You know, y-you could just stay … If you w-want.”

A crease etches its way in between his eyebrows as he processes my words. And, to be honest, I can’t blame him for his obvious confusion. I’m just as confused as he seems to be, because what the hell am I even saying?

“What?”

“I mean, you can … umm …” I fumble with my words, looking down and picking at the tiny blue tiles covering the countertop. “I mean, instead of going home. It’s late.” I look to the clock before meeting his eyes once again. “And your house is on the way outta town.” I shrug. “We could just stop by and grab your things on the way to Myrtle Beach in the morning,” I ramble.

Harley continues watching me, that sharp crease still furrowed into his brow as the air between us suddenly grows thick with a palpable tension. Awkward as hell. The longer I look at him, the more I wish the floor to my house would open up and suck me deep down into the depths of the unknown, or at least the basement. My heart is thumping, wild and aggressive, each beat whooshing in my ears so loud, it’s almost deafening. My palms are damp with perspiration. I can feel a prickly heat climbing its way up from the base of my neck, and I actually want to die. I think death would be less painful, right now.

“You ain’t got no spare bed. And there’s no way in hell I’ll fit on your couch,” he says, his voice a little raspier than usual.

I press my lips together to stifle the laughter threatening me. It’s both embarrassing and frustrating, and if I don’t laugh, I fear I might cry. I mean, do I need to spell it out to the guy? I take a deep breath. My feet are heavy, like they have weights tied to them. My knees wobble a little unsteadily. And I can’t help wonder if it’s my body’s way of telling me to stop whatever the hell it is I’m about to do. But I ignore all the apparent warning signs, crossing the small distance, and coming to stop just a few inches shy of him. Harley’s chest rises and falls in a heavy, trembling breath as he looks down at me, his shoulders tensing when I gently, hesitantly reach out, tugging at his T-shirt.