11. Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

B old

A few hours after the disastrous kiss at Jasmine's office, I'm pacing in my small living room, trying to make sense of the tangled mess of emotions swirling in my gut. Part of me wants to march over to Jasmine's place and finish what we started, to lose myself in her taste, her touch, until neither of us can think straight. The other part knows she's right. We crossed a line today, one that could jeopardize not just our working relationship, but our friendship.

What would help clear my head would be to go for a run. A knock sounds at my front door just as I'm wondering if there will be a hundred calls to the police the moment I leave the Sinclair's gated entrance. Frowning, I open it to find Jasmine on my doorstep, a hesitant smile on her face.

"Hey." She shrugs nervously, then tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her gaze flitting from mine after a moment's sizzling connection. "I was hoping we could talk. And maybe hang out for a bit? I feel like things got a little… intense earlier."

Intense is one word for it. I nod slowly, stepping back to let her in. "Sure. What did you have in mind?" My thoughts fill with pictures of her joining me in my bed under the skylight, then they race to equally filthy ideas of what we could do in her bedroom next door.

Jasmine holds up a grocery bag. "I thought I could make my signature dish, pasta primavera—pasta and veggies. And then maybe we could have a video game competition? I challenge you to a Mario Kart tournament."

I can't help but grin at that, some of the tension easing from my shoulders. Jasmine's competitive streak is one of the things I admire most about her. You'd think a woman born to privilege wouldn't have her courage or drive.

"You're on. But only if I can contribute the rotisserie chicken your dad stocked in my fridge. I'm a wolven. A meal's not a meal without meat."

She laughs, her eyes sparkling. "Deal. Let's do this."

We head into my small kitchen area, moving around each other with ease as we prep the food. As the pasta boils and I cut the chicken, ready to throw it in the microwave at the perfect moment, Jasmine fills me in on the latest drama with one of the reality TV shows she's mentioned in passing. It's funny how these people she's never met have become almost like family to her. Her face becomes beautifully animated as she recounts a particularly amusing anecdote.

"I think the dad on the show is a complete narcissist. I know…" she raises her hands in a don't-shoot-me pose, "I'm not allowed to diagnose people I haven't personally interviewed but…" She spears me with a conspiratorial look, "Between you and me? That man is a malignant narcissist."

"I'll have to look that one up."

"Nah. Don't bother: grandiose, high need for admiration, sense of entitlement, arrogance, envy, and lack of empathy. Ding, ding, ding! If you ever watch the show, you'll notice it immediately."

It feels good to slip back into our usual banter, the earlier awkwardness fading as we chat and joke as though the fiery kiss in her office never happened. I can't help but notice how my heart races whenever Jasmine accidentally brushes against me, or the warmth that spreads through my body when she playfully winks at me.

Control yourself, Bold. She made it clear a physical relationship is off the table.

Dinner is a casual affair, the two of us perched on stools at my tiny kitchen island as we devour the chicken and Jasmine's pasta. We keep the conversation light, steering clear of anything too serious or work-related. It's nice, easy in a way I didn't expect after the intense moment we shared at her office.

A few times, I catch her gazing at me and wonder if she's remembering our kiss, perhaps wanting a replay. But I can't go there. She put up a boundary, and it was the right call.

After we finish cleaning up, Jasmine rubs her hands together gleefully. "All right, Bold. Ready to get your ass kicked in Mario Kart?"

I laugh, following her outside, across the few steps that separate our houses, and into her living room, where she's already set up the game. "Bring it on, Sinclair. But I should warn you, I've never actually played before."

Jasmine's eyebrows shoot up. "Never played Mario Kart or never played any video games?"

"Video games aren't really a thing in the Zone." I wonder what she'd think if she ever entered the fortified gates of the Zone. Her grungy office in a dicey part of town is a palace compared to the nicest place in the Zone. I imagine it would horrify her.

"Never played?" She flashes me a playful smile. "Oh, this is going to be even more fun than I thought."

She makes a pew-pew sound as she shoots a finger gun at me. "Easier than shooting fish in a barrel."

She gives me a quick rundown of the controls and then we're off, our characters zooming around the colorful tracks. At first, I'm hopeless. More often than not, my kart spins out and crashes into walls. But as we play, my wolven reflexes kick in and soon I'm giving Jasmine a run for her money.

"Hey!" she yelps as I hit her with a red shell, sending her character tumbling off the track. "No fair! You're a natural at this."

I flash her a fang-filled grin. "What can I say? I'm a fast learner, plus wolven reflexes. Then, if you add in…" I pause for effect, forgetting for a moment that we've agreed to cool the flames sparking between us, "my urge to take advantage of anything my primal mind identifies as prey…"

I lift my hands in an I'm-helpless pose as her eyes flare, pupils dilating. Her head tips back, subconsciously exposing her vulnerable throat as her gaze flies to my mouth. She licks her lips, then returns her attention to the game as though nothing just happened between us. She must have no idea wolven have far superior senses of smell to humans. There's no doubt she's interested in me. The scent of her arousal is circling the room, as obvious as if it were colored smoke.

We play for hours, the friendly trash talk and laughter flowing easily between us. It feels good to just let go and have fun, to momentarily forget about the stresses and complications of our daily lives.

But every so often, our hands brush as we reach for a snack or our legs press together on the couch, and that electric tension from earlier crackles between us like heat lightning. I have to consciously focus on the game, to not let my gaze linger on the way Jasmine's face scrunches up adorably when she's concentrating, or the victorious smile that lights her face when she beats me in a race.

It's a delicate balance, the push and pull of our growing attraction warring with the knowledge that we can't act on it. But in moments like these, with Jasmine's laughter ringing in the air and the warmth of her presence seeping into my bones, it's easy to let myself forget about the complications and just enjoy her company.

By the time we call it a night, my cheeks are tight from smiling and my chest feels lighter than it has in days. Jasmine puts away the controllers, shooting me a soft, sincere smile as I head for the door.

"Thanks for tonight, Bold. I really needed this."

"Me too," I admit, rubbing the back of my neck. "It was fun. We should do it again sometime."

"Definitely." She hesitates for a moment, takes a step toward me, her arousal scent spiking, then stops in her tracks and murmurs, "Night, Bold."

"Night, Jazz." Although she's asked me to call her this half a dozen times, this is the first time I've taken her up on it, testing it out. It feels good, intimate. I like having her real name on my tongue.

I slip out the door, thinking for a moment that I should dive into the pool, jeans and all, just to cool myself off. Letting out a shaky breath, I run a hand through my hair and return to my pod.

This woman is going to be the death of me. But damn if I won't enjoy every minute of it.

I head to bed with a smile on my face and Jasmine's laughter echoing in my ears, the memory of her kiss a sweet ache in my chest. Whatever happens next, I know one thing for sure—I'm in deep. Although every brain cell I possess tells me I should back off, I'm not afraid to see where this rollercoaster takes us.