Shattered Bonds: Book Seven of Wicked Play by Lynda Aicher Page A

flair that pulled people in. Only she didn’t cut them once they were close, unlike his legal counterparts.
    He rested his chin on his fist and prompted, “Well?”
    She prolonged the moment by taking a drink of water, mischief erasing the tiredness that had been on her face. “I am a bit more charming than you.”
    The wiggling eyebrows yanked a burst of laughter from his chest. He couldn’t counter that. His grin was still in place when he reached out to tuck that stray piece of hair behind her ear. Her breath caught as he trailed his fingers down her jaw to cup her chin. “You are,” he found himself admitting. Her openness was so appealing. It was something he’d never been.
    Didn’t know how to be.
    Her lips parted with the slow caress of his thumb over the silky smoothness of her cheek. The urge to kiss her had him leaning in before he realized what he was doing. Sanity broke in when the heat of her breath gusted over his mouth. He switched directions to land a chaste kiss of comfort on her temple instead.
    His pulse hammered in his ears at his almost-error. She didn’t need his attentions when he had nothing to give her. Not after Beth. The bitter taste of failure sat like ash on his tongue.
    He let Liv go and started to clear away their dinner. He purposely avoided her gaze—another thing he rarely did—yet he was running on reserves and had little to spare for defense. The day had left him raw, broken in more ways than he could reassemble in his current state.
    Together, they put away the food and dishes, the silence broken by the clink of plates and the rush of water from the sink. He ignored the pulse of awareness that inflamed him whenever she brushed past, arm grazing or fingers touching. It burned hotter than before, despite his refusal to acknowledge it.
    Task completed, he flicked off the lights, checked the doors and led the way upstairs. He grabbed the bags. The hallway light seemed harsh when he flicked it on, and he resisted the urge to pause and straighten a bowl on the table.
    “Here,” he said, turning into the guest bedroom. The mission-style furniture filled the smaller room with its simple grace. He set her bag on the burgundy comforter and turned to see her studying him from the doorway. Her arms were crossed over her chest in an action that was more protective than defensive. Damn, he’d hurt her somehow. Or maybe she was just tired and hurting from the day itself. “The bathroom is down the hall, towels in the cupboard next to it if you want a shower.” He motioned in the direction they’d just come but didn’t move to leave. That would take him past her, and somehow that felt like a confrontation.
    She turned around without a word and disappeared down the hall. He’d selected the room farthest from his for a reason. Now he stepped into the hall to see her entering his. What was she doing?
    The spark of annoyance that should’ve been there at the invasion of his privacy wasn’t, though. Visions of her naked in his bed replaced any misspent anger. His dick responded, filling to half mast before he doused the image and followed her to his room.

    “What are you doing?” he barked, his personal irritation coming out at her.
    She turned from her study of the built-in cupboards and drawers that lined the wall next to the door. Her expression was flat, an oddity with her that added another notch to his self-loathing for putting it there.
    He rubbed at the pain in his neck, his focus shifting to the geometric pattern of the area rug. He should’ve taken her home. Should’ve dropped her off and left her alone to sort through her sorrow. Or to Vanessa’s. Her sister would’ve taken care of her.
    But V was at the hockey game, and his conscience wouldn’t let him just leave Liv—not that he wanted anyone else to care for her either.
    “Do you hurt, Noah?”
    He whipped his head up, hand dropping to his side when he realized what he’d been doing. “I’m fine,” he deflected.