Page 60 of Get Me to the Starting Line
“You think you can come here after ignoring me for a week, after making me wait for you every morning without so muchas a word or a simple text telling me you can’t show? No, there’s no way I’m letting you into my home.”
Her anger thrills me. I take a step into her personal space, shifting the box to my side so our fronts are almost touching. She has to arch her neck if she wants to keep scowling at me, which she does, as I tower over her. I want to lift her up and pin her against the wall.
Not until we get inside.
“Let me in.”
She glares, looking more like the woman I ran into on that houseboat than the one I’ve been running with.
My step forward forces her to step back. And again, and again. Until her back presses against the door. I reach out my hand, grazing the fabric of her pajamas to grasp the door handle. I was right, the fabric is so soft.
“Can I come in?” My voice is low and practically comes out as a growl.
“Oh, let him in, honey!” A squeaky voice from down the hall makes us both jump in surprise.
Leah whips her head in the direction of the intruder, and I catch a whiff of her scent, fresh, like rain and vanilla mixing with the cinnamon of her baking.
The self-control it takes not to lick her, to see if she tastes as good as she smells—she’s nearly irresistible. But we have an audience.
“Please go back in your apartment, Mrs. Hastings,” Leah says with so much exasperation, it’s probably not the first time the lady has eavesdropped. She better not have had men in her hallway for the old lady to spy on. Fuck, I’m a jackass.
“I’ll go back in, Ms. Harrison, when you let him in.”
The two women have a staring contest, and in a surprise outcome I wouldn’t have seen coming, Leah relents first, sighing before turning to open her door. She’s close enough to me that her ass brushes against my thighs, near where I’m already achingly hard for her.
I turn and mouth a quick thank you to the old lady.
She winks. “I’ll put my earplugs in tonight.” And then she’s back in her apartment, leaving me there stunned.
Leah has walked into her apartment, leaving the door open for me to follow. I shut it, sealing us in, the silence so loud as I face her. She’s standing in the middle of an impressively clean living room. Everything is neat and organized—even Levi’s toys are all put away in labelled bins.
The blankets are uniformly folded on the couch. There’s a cutout in the wall where I can see the kitchen, a pie sitting on a cooling rack on the counter. No dishes in the sink, and the counters are spotless.
She’s a neat freak. That doesn’t surprise me. Since she likes to control everything she can, I would expect nothing less of her apartment.
A beat passes, and a trickle of unease slithers down my spine, settling uncomfortably in my stomach.
“I-I’m sorry, if you didn’t want to let me in, I c-can go.”
There’s a calculating look in her eyes, like she can’t decide whether to laugh or yell.
“What are you doing here, Julien?” she asks in that same exasperated tone she used with her neighbour. The way my name slips off her tongue ... Damn. She’s the only one I want saying my name.
Screaming it.
I stick the box out towards her, but she doesn’t take it.
“What is it?” She eyes me suspiciously.
“Have you never been given a gift before? Open it.”
“Stop ordering me around,” she huffs.
I glare back. “I have no choice,ma têtue.” Her face transforms, softening, melting a fraction before she catches herself. She likes it when I speak French. I’m not above using everything I’ve got.
I take a step closer, watching her reaction. “Toi, ma têtue, tu vas ouvrir cette boîte, sans ajouter un mot.” The heat in her eyes wavers between anger and desire. I feel my lips curve into a smile. She watches my mouth with what looks like fascination.
“J’ai hâte d’avoir tes jambes enroulées autour de moi pendant que je m’enfouis en toi.” She may not understand the words, but I see the flash of understanding at my tone. Fuck, I want her.
