A shiver moves through me as I nod, disallowing the thought in my mind.
You are not welcome here, paranoia.
“He looks the most relaxed I’ve seen him since Mom and Dad left for their cruise,” he says.
“Oh,” I murmur. “Scrappy isn’t yours?”
He shakes his head, eyes flicking down to my chest, my disgusting tank top with my ungainly breasts sticking out. I should’ve come here in a goddamn sack, covered myself from head to freaking toe, so he’d have nothing to silently deride.
“Mom got him last year after her other dog sadly passed. But she’s neglected training him. So she asked me if I could handle it and, well—”
“You’re good at handling things,” I say, surprised by the acid sass in my voice.
His smirk tics. “That I am. Do you have time to stay for a drink?”
“You know I’m not twenty-one yet, right?” I say, injecting more sass into my voice.
Because – fuck it – if he’s going to talk to me in this gruff tone then I’m going to return the favor. The notion that that’s a silly idea when he’s paying my fee for this job occurs to me. But there’s something else beneath the surface, as though my lust is warping into fiery sassiness.
“Yes,” he says. “I was going to offer you a soda. But if you’re that touchy about your age I’m sure we’ve got some apple juice here somewhere. Perhaps I could even get you a straw.”
I stand up and Scrappy lazily pads away from us, lingering near the pool, and then sits down and curls into a ball and rests his snout on his forepaws.
“You’re so funny,” I say, shooting him a look. “But you’ve actually piqued my interest there, Mr. Crew. I love apple juice.”
He chuckles and waves a hand toward the house. I walk and try to make my legs feel secure, and not shaky, and try to tell myself that his eyes flitting over my body don’t produce a quivering song inside of me.
I walk into the kitchen, the surfaces all sleek black marble, with white lightning zigzagging through the material. I almost leap when I spot the butler standing next to the door, as still as a statue. His eyes glimmer in amusement but otherwise he remains silent.
“Drinks, sir?” he says a moment later.
“Two apple juices, please,” Colton smirks.
I feel my cheeks redden.
Are they both laughing at me?
“Freshly squeezed, sir?”
“Of course,” Colton says, and then turns to me with a hard to read expression.
His green eyes are filled with something, almost twinkling.
And all of a sudden the crazy urge to jump at him and wrap my arms around his massive shoulder muscles stabs at me.
I ignore it.
Obviously.
“Only the best for our star dog trainer,” Colton says.
The butler bows and moves around the kitchen and Colton waves us out to another room with a bar that overlooks the garden. The stools are high and modern, and even if I keep physically active with the dog training, I’m no gymnast.
So as I got to climb onto the stool I make a gargantuan fool out of myself by leaping up – missing – and then stumbling backward.
Colton moves quietly and quickly for a man of his size, gliding behind me and bracing me with his solid rock hard chest. His muscles press through his shirt and seem to imprint against my back, shivers moving torrentially through me.
I feel my sex tingle and my nipples prick and I’m glad when the butler returns with the quickest freshly-squeezed juice in the universe. Colton steps back as he lays them on the bar.
“Thank you, Max,” Colton says, with genuine affection in his voice.
“Will that be all, sir?”
“Yes,” Colton says.
Maxwell leaves the room and closes the door behind him softly.
This time I manage to climb onto the stool. I take a sip of the apple juice and then fight the urge to scream, it’s so ice-cold, the liquid burning a frigid path down my throat. I’m not sure if Colton notices but I quickly force myself to just gaze out into the garden, watching Scrappy snore softly.
Stop embarrassing yourself.
My heart is still hammering from the way he caught me.
The way his body pressed into mine.
My mind spins stupidly, imagining him turning me around and crushing me against the bar, kissing me hard, possessively, and then grabbing my hips and lifting me directly onto it like I’m one of those skinny perfect girls from high school.
Colton glides onto the stool next to me, so broad that his shoulder brushes mine, producing an army of tingling sensations that threaten to make me moan aloud.
Get. A. Freaking. Grip.
I’ve never been the swooning type. The streets haven’t let me. And yet here I am, head muddled. The very fact that we’re even sitting here confuses me because as Colton’s gaze drifts over me, I spot that same biting something in his gaze.