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a lot, but I don’t want anyone to know how much. “I don’t know.” As much as I attempt to keep it locked tightly away, my uncertainty bleeds through in my tone.
    She turns her legs toward me, the right side of her face leaning against the couch. I open my eyes and stare right into hers. “You’ll figure it out, Grisham. I have faith in you.”
    I give her a small smile. “You don’t know me well enough to have faith in me.”
    She squares her shoulders and lifts her chin.
    Ah. This girl has a stubborn streak. And I bet it’s a mile long. For reasons still undiscovered, the thought makes me smile.
    “I know enough.” Her lips pull into a tight smirk, her eyes shining brightly as she holds my gaze.
    The urge to kiss her is so strong I can’t deny it. It’s like I’m a poor fish caught on her line. With every sentence she utters, with every smile she so freely gives, she’s reeling me in slowly, and I can’t wriggle free. I don’t even want to.
    I lean in, and I see her lips part the slightest bit as she readies herself for my kiss. Her grip tightens in mine, and I use my other hand to grasp the back of her neck. The heat radiating off her skin scorches me, and all I want to do is drown in the flames. Her gaze darkens, and I know her expression mirrors the pure, inescapable lust in my own. Our eyes are locked and loaded, and all I have to do is close the remaining inches between us.
    Greta’s phone vibrates on the table. I close my eyes for a moment in frustration just as she jumps backward and reaches out to grab her phone.
    She gives me a guilty glance as she checks the number. “I have to answer this. It’s my dad.”
    I nod as I try to get control of the burning fire raging inside of me. Why is everything so… much with her? So much more?
    I’ve kissed more girls than I can count. When I want to do it, when I feel it’s right, I just do it. There’s never much buildup or thought. It’s the natural order of things. But with Greta, everything feels like a big fucking deal.
    I zone out for the few minutes she’s on the phone with her father. When she hangs up, she looks disgruntled.
    “My father wants to see me.”
    “Now?”
    She shakes her head. She’s agitated, or irritated. I’m not sure which. I remember briefly that her father was the man who assisted in Berkeley’s rescue last year when an enemy of her boyfriend’s brother kidnapped her. Greta’s father is some kind of security specialist. He owns his own company that Berkeley’s boyfriend, Dare, now works for as his right-hand man.
    Greta doesn’t seem thrilled about the impending conversation with her father. If I had to guess, I’d say they aren’t close. Either that, or Greta has an issue with him.
    We can start a club. The I Can’t Stand My Father club.
    “In the morning.” She flops back onto the couch and trains her eyes on the movie.
    I reach for her hand again, gauging her expression. She’s trying really hard to keep her face blank.
    “I don’t want to talk about him.”
    I nod, rubbing small circles with my thumb on the back of her hand. “Then we won’t.”
    We watch the rest of the movie in silence. I can’t stop thinking about how drastically different her headspace is now from where we were when our faces were inches apart.
    And on top of that, the movie has a terrible ending. The main character dies, and the girl has to go on without ever knowing what could have been.
    Fucking chick flicks.

4
Greta
    G reta.”
    I don’t recognize the soft voice calling my name, but I know its smooth, deep timbre makes me want to squeeze my eyes closed tighter and snuggle down deeper. A low rumble reaches my ears, a male chuckle. And then the soft brush of rough fingers against my forehead forces my eyes to fly open.
    “Hey,” whispers Grisham. He’s leaning over me, his face directly above mine. I can feel the hard lumps of his thigh muscles tensing under my head, and the memory of the evening comes rushing back in the