I don’t know him. But I can’t focus on that. My mind is humming. Oh god, he’s so close. I can feel the heat of his skin. I can smell his aftershave. It’s crisp and clean, with soft notes of citrus. I can also all but taste his burning resentment on my tongue. I raise a hand, wrapping it gently around his wrist. “I don’t pity you,” I murmur, holding his dark gaze. “Empathy and pity are not the same.” “They are to me,” he mutters, trying to pull away. “No,” I say, holding him still. “Pity implies that I feel sorry for you. Poor, sad sack Caleb got a raw deal, right? Well, we both know that’s
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