Shady.

But the thing is, Jared never witnessed me on the verge of a public meltdown, never saw me screech like a banshee and react without getting the facts, never saw me stutter out an apology. Never saw me panic and flee from a coffee shop like I had something to hide.

Never caught me writing erotica.

Collin Keller has.

And I’m humiliated.

My gaze swings to him, now that he’s finally turned his back on me, and trails down the corded column of his long neck—the most erotic part of a man’s body, in my opinion—and rests on the silky hair that could use a trim.

Or my fingers running through it.

The solid muscles of his back are outlined by the worn cotton of his clingy tee, and my trajectory aims for his spine. Down. Down to the tapered waist. His ass… Jesus. His ass.

Collin Keller is all hard lines and smooth edges.

My mouth waters a little, not gonna lie.

Momentarily, I forget myself and want to see the rich hazel eyes and lopsided grin that made my insides go melty the second I found out he was Greyson’s brother, and not her new boyfriend.

Melty like warm, liquid chocolate.

I bet he tastes just as good.

God, he’s so effing handsome.

Still, I made a complete and utter fool of myself in front of him two weeks ago, and again last week when we bumped into each other at Blooming Grounds.

When I totally lost my cool... slammed my computer shut… spilled my coffee… dropped my book… tripped over my power cord.

Ran out on him without saying good-bye. Who does that?

I can hardly look the guy in the eye now—and he seems so nice.

Looks so nice.

Nice and yummy.

Guh!

And let us not forget how ridiculously attractive he is.

If only he’d stop looking over here, like he knows a secret. Like I’m… captivating. Like I amuse him. Well, okay, I am captivating and amusing, and not without my charms, but he doesn’t need to keep staring at me like that. It’s making me extremely uncomfortable. Not to mention tingly in all the right places.

Yeah, those tingles.

It’s one thing for me to gawk at someone, completely another for them to gawk at me. I at least do it from a corner when no one’s watching.

Oh. Wait…

I’m going to classify his heated stares as figments of my very vivid imagination, which has gotten increasingly more colorful since I started writing my books. Every guy, young or old, is a potential character or potential muse. I can now turn everyday occurrences into romance, innocent sentences and questions into innuendo.

Take our run-in at Blooming Grounds, for example, when Collin asked if I was going to be at his housewarming party. He said ‘coming,’ and immediately my thoughts went to sex—lots and lots of sex. Sweaty, sticky, loud sex.

How sick and wrong is that? My deliberately tawdry mind went there willingly, and all the poor guy did was ask an innocent question.

I am a horrible person.

Heat rises in my neck, and I can feel my face get bright red. My only option is to turn and face the snack table, staring down the guacamole dip and willing my heart rate to slow down. I’m not hungry, but I busy myself, grabbing a plastic plate from the stack and piling tortilla chips—lots of tortilla chips—then carrots, cucumbers, and celery onto the plate until I run out of room.

I glance down at the bending plate. Shoot, maybe I overdid it a tad. Biting down on my lower lip, I stare at the wall—at the artwork he has hanging above the snack table, shifting my attention to his bookshelf.

Curious, I meander over, balancing my plate with one hand and trailing the other along the shelves. Surprised by the diversity of titles, I finger a vintage copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, which is sandwiched in between a biography on John F. Kennedy and the Maze Runner series. There’s a colorful row of the same children’s Encyclopedias I had growing up, and I crack a nostalgic smile.

I loiter a bit longer and sigh, knowing I should rejoin the group I came here with: Greyson, Cal, and their friend Aaron. The fact that I’m hiding in a corner is absolutely ludicrous; I’m a grown woman.

Nonetheless, I glance over my shoulder.

Yup. Still staring.

Dammit!

Why is he still staring? What is his deal?

Rattled by his attention, I stare at my plate, the hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and a tiny, nervous knot takes root in my stomach. When I inhale a deep breath and count to three, raising my head again to meet Collin’s eyes, that knot turns into a flutter.

A flutter of excitement.

He doesn’t even have the decency to pretend not to be watching me, hoisting his beer glass up in a silent toast, nodding his head towards me in a friendly greeting.

It’s his eyes, however, that give him away.

They’re perceptive. Insightful. Kind but also… shrewd. And he was acting weird at Blooming Grounds. I mean, how many times did the guy say come in a sixty-second period? Five? Six?

He knows something. I can feel it.

I lean against my shiny stainless steel oven, arms crossed as I blatantly stare at Cal’s sister from across the kitchen of my new condo. I’m half listening to something my childhood friend Dex is saying, and my narrowed eyes bore into Tabitha Thompson as she tucks a loose, dark blonde strand of hair behind her ear, then tips her head back to laugh.

Her throat is tan and graceful and smooth.

Just how I remember it.

Damn, I bet she smells good, too.

Casual in jeans and a plain black tee shirt, there is no mistaking the resemblance between Tabitha and her brother now that they’re in the same room together. Both tall with dirty blonde hair, they share the same bright blue eyes and height; but where Cal is hard and rugged—rough around the edges—sporting a perpetual black eye and scarred lip from rugby, Tabitha is all feminine curves and delicate features.

When I said she had a bony ass two weeks ago, I was full of shit.

She’s the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen.

She writes sleazy romance novels and works for a construction company.

She called me ridiculously good looking—ridiculously good looking. What does that even mean?

I continue observing her, waiting for her attraction towards me to manifest itself in some way—a flirty glance in my direction, a coy smile. Shit, I’ll settle for eye contact.

She’s giving me nothing.

If Tabitha Thompson is attracted to me, she sure as shit hides it better than most; she’s been avoiding me like the plague since stepping her high-heeled feet through the front door of my condo.

I have to give her props; she’s stealthy, that one. I’m talking expert-level evasion. My condo isn’t large, but somehow she’s managed to elude me like the fiercest competitor in a game of Mortal Kombat.

Not to brag, but I’m fucking great at that video game. I will Level 300 that shit against any thirteen-year-old and kick their tech-savvy ass. Oh, Mortal Kombat doesn’t have levels, you say? Tough shit. It does when I play—I’m so badass I make levels.

It’s been one week since I bumped into her writing at Blooming Grounds, and two weeks since Grey and I ran into her shopping. But since her arrival at my housewarming party, she’s been dodging me, pretending not to be affected by my presence.

Like right now, for example, Tabitha is bearing down on the snack table, staring at the sandwiches and loading up on nachos like she’s a waitress in a bar, and it’s her job. She’s probably not even going to eat any of it; she just doesn’t want to turn around and acknowledge me.