Jennifer Lynn Barnes

“What are we doing here?”

“Sighing melodramatically,”

Michael leaned forward and brushed his lips against mine. Then he pulled back and studied my face. Whatever he saw there, he liked.

“Thank you,” he said. “That’s all I needed to know.”

“So take whatever time you need. Figure out how you feel. Figure out if Dean makes you feel the way I do, if he’ll ever let you in, and if you want him to, because the next time my lips touch yours, the next time your hands are buried in my hair—the only person you’re going to be thinking about is me.”

I was everyone’s problem and nobody’s.

Whoa there, Cassie, I told myself sternly. Let’s keep it PG.

Tanner Briggs. The name.

Special Agent. Job title.

Federal Bureau of Investigation.

It was warm and safe and happy—but it wasn’t me.

I knew then—the way I always knew things—that Michael had been in my shoes once and that he had opened the door. His warning was genuine, but I opened it, too.

He liked keeping me guessing.

I’ll stop trying to read your emotions if you stop trying to profile me.

Liar.