Chapter 9
NAOMI
Sawyer plants his hands against the door, above my head, leaning his long body into mine, and I can barely speak, let alone breathe.
Embarrassment mixes with the after-taste of tequila in my mouth.
Brows stuck together in a deep frown, I stare up at him, my back against the dark front door, as anger—in its frustrated attempt to hide my unease—finds its way to my tongue, too.
“I hate to ask a question I already know the answer to, but… Were you born this big of an annoyance or did it take learning to get to this point?”
“Come on, kitty. This level takes years and years of practice,” he says, his face as blank as a sheet of paper. “Where are you going?”
“None of your business.”
“It’s three o’clock in the morning.”
“Happy that you can tell time. Now, if you’ll excuse
