Chapter 20 #2
“You were,” I insisted, trying to ignore the strange flutter in my stomach at his touch, like I’d swallowed a jar of butterflies. “You used to let me sleep in your bed when I had nightmares. You taught me how to ride a bike. You beat up Tommy Wilson when he made fun of my accent.”
“He deserved it,” Colt said simply, his hands now resting on my shoulders, warm and heavy and grounding in a way I didn’t want to examine too closely.
Our eyes met in the mirror again, and something in his gaze made my breath catch like it had snagged on a hook.
There was an intensity there that seemed almost primal, like something wild lurked just beneath his carefully controlled surface. “Try these next.”
He handed me a pair of jeans that looked impossibly small compared to what I usually wore—the denim equivalent of a compression bandage.
I hesitated, suddenly very aware of how cramped the changing room was, how close Colt was standing, how the air between us felt charged with something I couldn’t name but could definitely feel crawling across my skin like electricity.
“I can put these on myself,” I said, my voice embarrassingly shaky. “You can wait outside. Or possibly in another state.”
“Just try them,” he replied, not moving an inch from his position on the bench. His eyes darkened with something that made my mouth go dry and my pulse skyrocket. “Unless you’re scared?”
“Scared? Of what? You?” I scoffed, trying to sound braver than I felt, which was approximately as brave as a mouse facing down a hungry tiger. And again, that strange comparison popped into my head—why did I keep thinking of Colt as a tiger? “Don’t flatter yourself.”
His lips curved into a predatory smile that sent a shiver down my spine, like someone had dropped an ice cube down my back. “Then what’s the problem?”
“The problem is I don’t need an audience to put on pants! It’s not a spectator sport!”
“Evidence suggests otherwise,” he countered, leaning back slightly, his posture deliberately casual though his eyes remained intensely focused on me, like I was prey he was considering how to devour. “Go ahead. I’ll wait.”
Facing away from him because I wasn’t a complete masochist, I quickly unbuttoned my shorts, my fingers fumbling like they’d forgotten how buttons worked.
I could feel the weight of Colt’s gaze on my back, on my legs, making my skin heat with embarrassment—or something else entirely that I refused to name or acknowledge or possibly ever think about again.
I let the shorts drop and stepped out of them as fast as humanly possible, nearly tripping in my haste because apparently my coordination was the first casualty of whatever was happening in this changing room.
“Graceful as ever,” Colt commented dryly.
“Shut up,” I muttered, grabbing the jeans and trying to step into them without making even more of a fool of myself, which was like trying to not get wet in a hurricane.
The new jeans were a struggle to pull on, the fabric clinging to my legs like a second skin as I wiggled and hopped in the small space.
Unlike my usual baggy hand-me-downs that hung off my frame like curtains, these hugged every curve and contour I didn’t even know I had.
With growing horror, I realized they showcased my butt in a way that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
Colt’s eyes tracked my every movement, his gaze practically burning holes in me as he watched the denim slide up my thighs with an intensity that made my skin prickle with awareness.
“These can’t be right,” I said, struggling with the button like it was a Rubik’s cube designed by Satan himself. “They’re painted on! I can’t even—”
“Turn around,” Colt commanded, his voice rough in a way I’d never heard before.
I hesitated but complied, feeling exposed and vulnerable with my back to him. The mirror betrayed me, showing his expression as his eyes locked on my jean-clad backside with such open appreciation that heat flooded my face.
“Perfect,” he murmured, and I wasn’t sure if he was talking to himself or me.
Without warning, Colt’s hands were on my hips, spinning me back around to face him.
He was still sitting on the bench, which put his face at my chest level, and I froze like a deer in headlights, my heart pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it, possibly even see it trying to escape through my rib cage.
“They’re your actual size,” he said, his voice low and rough, like sandpaper wrapped in velvet.
His fingers brushed mine aside to fasten the button himself, his knuckles grazing the sensitive skin of my lower stomach and sending a jolt of something hot and electric straight through me. “That’s how jeans are supposed to fit.”
His eyes made another deliberate journey down my body, lingering on the way the denim hugged my thighs, before slowly traveling back up.
“You’ve been hiding this body under those ridiculous clothes all this time?
” There was something almost accusatory in his tone, as if my baggy clothing choices had personally offended him.