The Last Guy She Should Call. Joss Wood

that white cotton shirt, long fingers that were made to stroke a man’s skin, long legs that could wrap around a man’s hips...

      This was Rowan, he reminded himself harshly. She was not somebody he should find attractive. He’d known her for far too long and far too well. Seb frowned, irritated that he couldn’t break their eye contact. Her eyes had the impact of a fist slamming into his stomach. Those eyes—the marvellous deep dark of midnight—had amused, irritated and enthralled him. When he’d first met her he’d been a young, typical boy, and babies were deeply uncool but her eyes had captivated him. He remembered thinking they were the only redeeming feature of a demanding, squawking sprat.

      Her face was thinner, her bottom rounder and her hair longer—halfway down her back. He imagined winding those curls around his fingers as he slipped inside her... Seb shook his head. They shared far too many memories, he reminded himself, a whole handful of which were bad, and they didn’t like each other much.

      Have you totally lost your mind?

      ‘Let’s get you home and we can argue later, when you’re back to full strength.’ Seb bent down and easily lifted her rucksack with one hand, picking up her large leather tote with the other. ‘You okay to walk?’

      Rowan stood up and pulled her bag over her shoulder. ‘Sure.’

      Seb briefly closed his eyes. It was a struggle not to drop her bags and bring her mouth to his.

      ‘What’s the problem now?’ Rowan demanded, her tone pure acid.

      He stared at the ceiling before dropping rueful eyes back to her face. ‘I keep thinking that it would’ve been easier if you’d just stayed away.’

      ‘Loan me the cash and I’m out of here,’ she pleaded.

      ‘I could...’

      Rowan held her breath, but then Seb’s eyes turned determined and the muscle in his jaw tightened. ‘No. Not this time, Ro. You don’t get to run.’