I swear my lips soften and swell. Which is just plain nonsense, I tell myself grimly. “Why am I not surprised they all run away?”

His brow lifts. Deliberately misunderstanding me? Very cute, Button.

Oh, was that deliberate?

He grins wide. And I try not to stare. Usually, there’s something a bit cynical about John Blackwood. A strange stillness that overtakes him when he isn’t talking, and it’s as if he’s in his own world, and it’s a dark place. But when he smiles like this, unguarded and full out, he’s almost another person—boyish and happy.

I can’t get past his transformation.

“Are those glasses even prescription?” On closer inspection, the glass is flat and thin.

John pushes the glasses further up the prominent bridge of his nose. “They’re a prop. I’ve found most people look right past me when I’m neat and tidy.”

“Imagine that.”

He chuckles and steps a bit closer. “But you noticed right off.”

“Because you were staring at me.”

“You were staring right back.” He’s near enough now that the heat of his body buffets mine. I am around men all the time. Some smell good, some reek of cologne, and some just reek. John’s scent is more of a tease: a bit warm and spicy, a little citrusy and musky. The combination tickles the edges of my senses, beckoning me to get closer, burrow in and investigate. It’s diabolical.

I take a step away from him and glance at the restaurant we just left. “What are you doing here?”

“Eating lunch at my favorite dim sum restaurant. Obviously.”

“It’s my favorite dim sum restaurant.”

“Pretty sure it’s half the city’s favorite,” he says.

“And yet you just happen to be here. Today.”

His eyes crinkle with a grin. “Now, now, my little Sherlock Gnome. As it happens, my therapist’s office is across the street, and I like to have lunch here after a session.”

“Oh.” Now I feel like an ass.

Something John obviously realizes. His answering grin rivals the Cheshire Cat’s. “Look at you all adorably awkward, thinking you’ve put your foot in it.”

“Well, I kind of did.”

His brow quirks. “Because you got me to say I go to therapy? I’m not embarrassed to talk about it. Dr. Allen helped pull me out of a bad spot.” He shrugs. “Truth is, I kind of like therapy now. It helps me get things off my chest and keep things in perspective.”

“I went for a while when I was a teen,” I tell him lightly. Inside, however, I’m twitchy. Because, while John seems to be fairly at ease in opening up about himself, I’m not. I never have been. “I could probably do with a few sessions again.”

If he’s curious about why I had needed counseling before, he mercifully doesn’t prod. Instead, his attitude remains light and teasing. “It might help with that raging case of paranoia you have going on.” He gives me a conspiratorial wink.

When I wipe the corner of my eye with my middle finger, John chuckles low and clearly pleased with himself. He settles down and peers at me with renewed interest. “Are you really surprised we have the same taste in restaurants?”

“What do you mean?”

A furrow runs between his dark brows. “What was all that the other night when we were shopping? We had almost the exact same items.”

“I’d noticed,” I murmur, unsettled. “It was odd.”

“It was fucking weird.”

We start walking down the street. I’m not sure where we’re going or why we started walking, but I don’t stop. John remains close enough to touch but he keeps his eyes focused straight ahead. “Thought you were stalking me at first.”

I laugh. “I thought the same of you.”

“I know. You kept glaring with those crazy ‘if you even flinch in my direction I will nut you’ eyes.”

“That look is the first line of defense for most women.”

He shrugs. “Never had one of those directed at me before.”

“Because you’re the great Jax Blackwood?” I’m only half teasing.

“Well … yeah.” From behind his glasses, his green eyes gleam. “Why are you looking at me like I should apologize for that?”

“At least be a little humble.”

“I don’t know how.” He gives me another cheeky smile, his step light and confident. “Who’s that Bradley guy?”

He clearly heard too much. I keep my chin held high. “He’s none of your business.”

John shrugs a big shoulder. “I couldn’t help but overhearing—”

“When you were lurking behind us?”

“When I was sending a text and you two stopped right in front of me,” he appears almost aggrieved, “without even noticing I was there.”

“Sorry I didn’t take a moment to look around for you.”

Ignoring my sarcasm, he nudges me with his arm. “Forgiven.”

“Argh!”

John’s laugh is low and rolling and way too pleased. “God, you’re easy to stir up.”

“I’m beginning to think you like doing it.”

He leans down, and his breath tickles my skin. “I love it.”

Shivers break out over my shoulders and run down my chest. Horribly, my nipples draw tight, and it’s an effort to maintain my casual stride. Seriously, how does the man do it? How can a few words and the smooth tenor of his voice affect me so strongly?

Our steps slow as we reach the intersection. There’s a huge puddle, one of many that have appeared since the snow melt. This one is dark and deep, nasty bits of ice and city detritus floating on top. I halt and am glancing around for a way across when John catches hold of my wrist.

His long fingers make my wrist feel small and fragile. When I halt and gape up at him, he grins at me, eyes bright with mischief.

“What—” My words cut off with a squeak when he bends down and scoops me up in his arms.

“Don’t wiggle,” he says as he steps straight into the icy puddle and walks us across the road. “You won’t like it if I drop you.”

He’s warm and clearly strong as an ox, despite his lean frame. I wrap an arm around his neck, not because I think I’ll fall, but because I can’t help myself. “You’re insane.”

Up close, his eyes have flecks of deep blue spiking through the green. “I’m being chivalrous,” he says in protest. “Seriously, mark the date because this is a first.”

His breath smells faintly of the little melon candies they hand out at the end of the meal, and I have to brace myself against his chest to keep from leaning closer and stealing another kiss to discover if he tastes good too. Doesn’t stop me from feeling the imprint of his hand clasping my bare thigh or the way his other hand presses against my ribs just below the curve of my breast. It’s too much and far too close.

He’s not looking where he’s going but studies my face as I study his. John Blackwood has an Old Hollywood look about him—features that are of strong character instead of pleasant perfection. His high-bridged nose is a bit too long, the thick line of his dark brows a bit too severe, and his chin is completely stubborn, a blunt punctuation at the end of his sharp jawline. But his mouth is softly sculpted and full.

Those lips move slightly closer, and I realize I’m staring at them, that he’s watching me stare at them.