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His eyes are closed, and his hands are clasped over his stomach, and I’m grateful that he can’t see me because I’m pretty sure if he looked at me right now the last ounce of resolve I have would flee my body. I finish washing his hair and grab another towel and quickly start to run it over his strands, but he reaches up and takes it from me, cocking his head as he rubs his hair dry. I imagine him doing that right after stepping out of a shower and heat shoots between my thighs.
Jesus, Callie get a grip.
Setting a large towel on the floor beneath the chair, I drape an extra one over his body as a makeshift cloak before I begin snipping away. I move around him, snipping off ends and then taking a step back to assess my work. We don’t speak, but I can feel his eyes on me, stalking me with each move I make. I’ve cut hundreds of people’s hair, and yet this feels different. This feels intimate.
I step in front of him and slide my sheers across a section of his hair when my knee accidentally knocks into his causing my hand to tremble.
“Sorry,” I whisper, although why it’s coming out a whisper, I have no idea.
He doesn’t respond, but instead places his hand on the side of my thigh, steadying me. All the blood leaves my brain with a heady whoosh. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. His hand slowly trails up the back of my leg, up my thigh until it’s resting on my hip, and his thumb gently strokes the skin underneath my t-shirt lighting my skin on fire. Our gazes tangle and all my synapses fire off at once like the finale of a fireworks show, sending electricity shooting to the tips of my fingers and down to my toes. I force myself to look away, to stare down at the small set of sheers I’m clutching in a vice grip, but I can feel Tate’s eyes still on me.
I want to ask him what he’s really doing here. Why he’s here with me instead of at home with his fiancée, but just as I find the words, his hands grip my waist and tug until I’m standing in between his legs, close enough that I can feel his breath blowing gently across my chest. My arms dangle lamely by my sides and I feel him reach out and take the scissors from me, setting them gently on the floor.
“Tate,” I say placing my hands on his biceps and pushing weakly against his arms. “What are you doing?”About Author: C.J. McKella is a romance writer living beneath the hot Arizona sun with her husband and their cat, Kaylie. She devotes her days to working, and her nights writing, allowing the characters in her head to come to life. When not working or writing, she can be found reading, binge-watching Netflix, or playing video games. A romantic at heart, she has a love for stories, and all things ending in happily ever after. C.J. McKella loves to meet new people. Stop by and say hello! Facebook Page: www.facebook.com/authorcjmckella Goodreads Link for Rekindled: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/29564641 Enter C.J.'s giveaway!! a Rafflecopter giveaway