My cousin gives me a look that says, “I don’t get women,” while Matt’s studying me. I avoid looking at him, even though I can feel the weight of his gaze skimming over me from top to bottom, then back up, leaving my body hyperaware. But keeping my eyes off him doesn’t insulate me from his aftershave, which smells expensive and incredibly sexy. He had the same scent mingled with a hint of musky male and soap when we first met. Warmth unfurls in my belly. Why does he have to smell so divine? I stay rigid so I don’t squirm. Stick to the plan, I tell myself while adjusting my glasses.
