After a long, dense pause, he asked, “Do you still hate me?” What? He already knew I didn’t. He’d been telling me so since Victoria, even though I kept insisting—oh. I see. My fingers trailed across his kiss-swollen bottom lip as I shook my head. “No,” I said. His breath caught, his throat moving with a soft swallow. “Do you have feelings for me, Sanchez?” Th-thump th-thump th-thump. “Absolutely yes, Cloutier,” I whispered. A single dimple. “Do I give you butterflies?” “Yes.” Two dimples. And the man was full-on blushing now. Adorable. Infuriatingly adorable.
