Chapter 11 #2
He searches my face like he’s trying to solve me, and I know that look from college.
Usually right before he said something that made me want to throttle him.
But I’ve noticed three years have changed him.
Or maybe college Parker was the real Parker and I’m getting the broken Parker only because he can’t catch the ball.
I set my pen down on the table and twist my lips. “What?”
“Why were you scared at the rink?”
Every muscle in my body goes still but I keep my expression flat. “You were on the ground under me. It was… awkward.”
“Was it though?”
I don’t answer. It wasn’t awkward, it was sexual tension.
His voice softens more and somehow that makes it worse. “Annika, you panicked when I touched you.”
I run my hands over my legs. “We’re not talking about me.”
“Why not?”
“Because this is your session. Boundaries, remember.”
His brows rise. “That’s convenient.”
“It’s professional.”
His attention lands on me with the same intensity he uses when he’s waiting for a pass on the field. Patient. Disciplined. Impossible to ignore.
Heat rises under my skin.
“You ever get tired of hiding behind words?”
The question floats in the space between us, heavier than it should in this environment. I shift my weight, aware of the change in the air pressure in the room and how the golden light behind him blankets his shoulders.
I snap back, teasing, sort of, “Do you ever get tired of poking your nose into things you don’t understand?”
“Nah, it’s a family trait.” He lets out a gentle laugh and a lopsided smile shades his face.
“Well, this isn’t the place.”
“And yet,” he says in a husky, unhurried voice.
He stands quickly and I tense on instinct. Of course, he notices and his expression changes, just enough for me to question his intentions.
Not smug.
Not playful.
Careful as if he’s approaching with caution.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says. His tone, sincere.
His words cause my ribs to knock or at least that’s how it feels. He takes one step closer.
Not enough to crowd me. But enough to change the charge between us.
“You ask me to talk about fear, pressure and anticipatory failure.” He runs his pointer finger over his lips. “You ask me to tell you what’s happening before the ball falls from my hands.”
I stand too out of fear. Because remaining seated feels like I’m surrendering—to him, to the positive and negative charge between us.
“And I’m trying. But every time I ask you one question back, you shut the door.”
I swallow, forcing the cotton ball in my throat down. “Parker, I’m not the patient.”
“No,” he says, his eyes falling to my mouth again. “You’re the woman who keeps telling me to trust. But I realized something today with the kids. Trust is a two-way street. It’s hard to trust someone when they don’t trust you.”
My breathing changes, chest inflates. He notices.
I should tell him to leave.
I should open the door and escort him out.
I should put distance, a desk and every professional boundary between us.
Instead, I stand there breathing him in. Nothing fancy. Just soap and detergent smelling of cotton.
The memory of the rink rushes back all at once—his arms wrapped around me, his chest under my palms and the heat rising from his body.
My pulse skips a beat, betraying me. “Parker—”
His hands lift in an agonizing fashion, giving me every chance to stop what I think is about to happen. His body seems to be giving me all the signals. Pupils half blown, scratchy, but low voice.
I don’t stop him. I just look at him. My eyes feel as round as globes. A skitter of nerves travels up my spine.
His fingers brush my jaw, before extending those long fingers, and cup my face.
If I let him kiss me, it’s irreversible. It changes the whole dynamic.
His thumbs rest just beneath my cheekbone.
I should move or look away, but I get lost in the sincerity of his eyes that are far too gentle for a man who has spent years driving me insane.
“You can tell me no,” he says, his voice roughened around the edge.
I should tell him no. But I can’t. Not when he’s drinking me in. Not when my body has already made the choice to stay even though my brain is frantically screaming at me.
Don’t let him get too close.
It could ruin everything.
Still holding my face, he draws me closer and I feel the heat radiating from his body. Enough chemistry that my breath catches.
Then his mouth is on mine.
Soft.
Slower than I expect.
Asking.
And God help me, I answer.
My hands rise to his chest fisting the fabric of his shirt as the kiss deepens.
One of his hands slides down my neck, over my blouse then settles on my waist, keeping me close without trapping me.
And the fact that he instinctually knows to give me my space nearly undoes me as much as the kiss itself.
He tastes like cinnamon, warm and dangerous, not to anyone but me. My legs go weak and wobbly.
His thumb strokes along my jaw and I melt into him in a way that professional me absolutely doesn’t approve of. Personal me, has been waiting my entire life for a kiss like this.
What am I thinking? This is Parker. Late to everything, infuriating, too-charming, Parker.
But this kiss feels nothing like an argument. It feels like all the things that should be whispered. Like things we never said but wanted to.
When he pulls away with overlapping kisses, he touches his forehead to mine.
We’re out of breath from our tongues swirling and lips overlapping. This man plays professional football for a living and he’s the perfect spokesman for a treadmill or bike commercial. He has stamina. Yet he goes slow.
My lips still burn from the kiss, and his eyes comb over my face like he’s waiting for the moment I pull away.
For regret.
For reality to crash back in.
It doesn’t.
And maybe that’s the most alarming part.
I should tell him this can’t happen again. Should draw a line before we blur beyond recognition.
But I don’t.
His thumb drags across my bottom lip, lingering there, and the look in his eyes says he’s searching for something—permission, restraint, maybe even a reason to stop.
“That’s the part you should probably analyze,” he murmurs, his forehead resting against mine. “Because I’ve wanted to do that since college, so apparently my judgment’s been compromised for years.”
And just then, what comes from my mouth is a reflex. “You’re still late. All the time.”
For one beat, he just stares, then laughs, the sound brushing over my skin like silk.
“There she is.”
I take one shaky step back because if I don’t, I’ll kiss him again and I’m not ready for what that might mean.
He stands his ground, surveying my face, searching for something and asks, “Are we calling a truce?”
I press my lips together as his fingers run over my blouse.
“No,” I say, my tone softer than I intended. It should be strong, certain, professional.
It’s not.
His grin forms, slow and methodic until his dimples dig deeper and an easy smile shines on his face. “Good,” he mutters. “I’d hate to think a simple kiss would make you go easy on me.”
And just like that, my pulse kicks up all over again.