My knees almost buckle, and my hand darts out, grabbing his arm, my lips parting as I try to process what he’s saying. Cooper’s heavy gaze moving from my face to where I touch him breaks me out of my trance. I release him with an exaggerated flex of my hand. What is this, a fucking swoon? Good god, I need to get a grip. And not one on Cooper’s surprisingly solid bicep. The boy is wiry, but apparently strong ropes of muscle are hidden under those stupid-ass sweatshirts. And well-tailored suits. Christ.
