New Romantics

Chapter 10

And... it was none of my business.

"Are you keeping tabs on me, Aria?"

"Of course not. I've learned organically."

His eyes darkened. "You seem to be making quite a few assumptions."

"You were making assumptions about me in the bookstore yesterday," I countered.

He snorted, but said nothing.

Despite both of our attempts to appear unbothered, the tension surrounding Leo and I hung hot and humid and ready to explode, and I prayed the phone to ring, for a customer to waltz in, for Mr. Sorrel to knock over a bookshelf—anything!—to change the subject.

But business was slow. We were ahead of schedule on the inventory update. And Mr. Sorrel was not interested in the drama surrounding the Living.

Leo agreed with my sentiment. Pushing off the shelf, Leo crossed the small alcove with two simple strides to stand directly in front of me, and plucked the book out of my hands.

"Hey!" I protested. "Leo! Give that back!"

When I tried to snatch it back, he lifted the book over his head. When I tried again, he held me back—one hand squarely on my shoulder—and read over the passage.

"That is so not cool!" I seethed.

"It's not," he agreed, still staring at the page. "It's actually quite hot. This book, I mean." His blue eyes narrowed, and to my horror, Leo Aldridge began reading aloud. "Their tongues clashed with equal desperation. Everything that transpired between them over the last few months led to this moment—"

"Leo!"

"—to the world exploding with passion. Salena needed Jace. Needed his mouth everywhere. Needed to explore every piece of him, starting with his throbbing—"

"You're ridiculous!" I wailed.

Suddenly, Leo's hand was no longer on my shoulder, and the momentum of my struggling against his force sent me toppling into his chest. The air whooshed out of him when my forehead collided with this throat, and the two of us fell back into the bookshelf, our arms and legs and feet tangling together.

"Jesus, Aria," Leo gasped, the force of our fall rattling the bookshelf. Still braced against him—my hands gripping the front of his apron for dear life—his left hand clutching the shelf behind him—I looked up at him, and said, wearily,

"Don't blame this on me."

His hand moved from the shelf to my waist, the paperback book open on the floor beside us. I was so dizzy from the whiplash, I couldn't stand straight. "You headbutted me in the throat," he wheezed. I pulled back just enough to clear his airway. "Why is your forehead so fucking strong?"

"South Asians have big foreheads," I murmured. And then said, "Sorry, I didn't mean to headbutt you."

Wincing, he momentarily screwed his eyes shut and breathed heavily. "It's fine..." When I moved to step away, he squeezed my hip, and I froze. "Wait," he said. "Don't move..."

I wasn't sure I could even if I tried.

The heat of his hands scorched my skin, seeping into my blood, my cells, and lingered with his scent: rich, herbaceous, smoky, and warm. It had been so long since someone held me this closely, so intimately, even in these circumstances, that my brain short-circuited. Leo cracked open his eyes and his breath shifted beneath me, shallowing once more, as though I struck him again, and we looked at each other, stunned.