His head was bowed like he was buttering his toast, but the smirk on his lips gave him away. He knew exactly what he was doing to me.
When I tried to shift my chair back just a little, he leaned forward, reaching for the butter dish in the middle of the table. His hand brushed against mine, warm and quick, like an accident—but it wasn’t. My skin tingled where he touched me, and I had to drop my eyes again before his father caught the way I almost jumped.
“Something wrong?” his father’s voice cut through the tension.
I jolted, almost knocking over my glass.
“N-no,” I stammered quickly, forcing a small smile. “Just… the toast is a bit hard.”
He grunted, not really paying attention, and went back to eating. Relief washed through me, but only for a moment. Because under the table, Jamie’s
