When he rolled the piece of hair between his fingers, tugging gently, I shivered. As if he sensed it, his grip on my curl tightened, then he dropped it.

I turned to him. “That doesn’t answer my question. Will you get sent over there any time soon?”

I held my breath. God, please no. Just the idea of Finn in harm’s way was enough to make me want to hurl. What if he got injured or…no. I couldn’t finish that thought. Ever. He wouldn’t go over, and he would stay safe. The most dangerous things he would ever do would be surfing and riding his bike.

“I suppose it’s likely. I’ve heard word of my unit possibly getting sent out sometime in the summer.” He leaned against the wall and crossed his ankles. He took another swig of his beer, so I did the same. The thought of him going to war was enough to drive me to drink anything. “So I guess anything is possible.”

I swallowed hard. “I hope you don’t go.”

“It’s part of the job.”

“Still.”

Our gazes latched, and for once he didn’t back off or turn away. “Don’t worry about me. If I do leave, you probably won’t even remember my name after a while.”

I set my empty beer bottle down and smacked his arm as hard as I could. “Not remember you? What the hell is the matter with you? Of course I’ll remember you.” I shoved his shoulders, wanting to hurt him for insinuating I was so flaky I would forget all about him the second he left, but he simply raised a brow at me. “Of course I’ll care.”

He finished his beer and set his down too. “No, you won’t. You’ll move on with your life and be fine. You’ll probably marry Cory and have little Ginger babies.”

I smacked him again. Really hard. “You’re such a jerk.”

“Stop hitting me.” He caught my wrist and narrowed his eyes at me. “And I never claimed not to be one, did I?”

I tried to jerk free, but he didn’t let go of my wrist. “Good. Because you’re a big, fat, stupid jerk.”

His jaw ticked. “What are we? Kindergartners? Resorting to name-calling? Should I call you a poopy-face now?” He released my wrist and slid his hand into my hair. “Tug on your hair and pretend I don’t like you?”

I curled my free hand into his shirt and pulled him closer. “Go ahead.”

“No.” But he did bury his hands even deeper into my hair, making my scalp tingle ever so slightly. And then he pulled. Gently. My stomach clenched with need.

I licked my lips. “Why not?”

“Because I’d rather do this.”

He lowered his head, tenderly brushing his lips against mine. He kept the kiss so soft I barely felt it, yet it rocked me straight to my core. That something so little could feel so powerful should have scared me, but it didn’t. It made me want him even more because it felt so right. I wanted his real kiss. The one where he held nothing back and gave me the passion I so desired from him.

“Carrie,” he sighed against my lips, his fingers tightening on my hair. “You’re killing me.”

That gave me the courage to try for more. To get something more than a chaste peck on the lips from him. He’d taught me what desire was, and I wanted to learn more—with him.

“Then let me help.”

Rising up on tiptoes, I tried to catch his mouth again. Tried to get him to break his impervious self-control. But he pulled back without giving me a chance. His hands shook as he disengaged himself from my clinging hands, and he looked down at me with heated eyes.

“You can’t help me with this,” he rasped. “I’ll go get you another beer. Stay here.”

Without another word, he grabbed our empty bottles and headed off into the kitchen. I wrapped my arms around myself, shivering slightly. I’d thought I had seen desire in his eyes before I tried to kiss him again. I could have sworn he wanted it as much as I did. Obviously, I’d been wrong. I kept throwing myself at him, and he didn’t even want me.

I needed to stop being so freaking pathetic around him. And I really needed to stop melting into a tiny puddle on the floor every time he flexed his hot muscles at me and smiled. He only wanted to be friends, and if that’s all I could get, then so be it. I would have to take it.

He came back into the room, a full beer in each hand and his mouth pressed tight. “Look, I’m—”

I held up my hand, knowing exactly where he was going. “I know. You don’t need to say another thing. Seriously.”

“You’re upset,” he said flatly.

“I’m not. We’re friends, nothing more.”

He hesitated. “It’s not that I don’t want to be more. Believe me. I just can’t.”

“I know. You’ve told me.” I took the beer from him and took a long, hard drink. “Stop worrying so much. It was fun. It doesn’t mean we’re anything more than friends, right?”

His knuckles went white on his beer. “Right.”

“Good. Glad we’re on the same page.” I sat down and reclined on the couch. Hopefully I didn’t look like I wanted to scream and tear my hair out right now. Because I did. “So, what are we watching?”

He stood there for a second, looking at me. Then he crossed the room and sat down on the opposite side of the couch. Much farther than he had last time. The message was clear. He didn’t want any more accidental kissing to happen.

Fine. Neither did I.

He flipped through the titles and then hovered over a movie. “The Hangover?”

“What’s it about?”

He stared at me as if I had sprouted horns or something equally appalling. “You’ve never heard of it?”

“My father didn’t like me going to the movies. He didn’t like movies in general. Said they were nothing but goop for the mind. I snuck into one once, but got dragged out halfway through.” Why did all of my stories end with “and I got dragged out?” Geez. Maybe I should see a therapist or something. Or become one so I could talk to myself about my messed-up childhood. I read the blurb on the TV. “And judging from the description and rating, he definitely wouldn’t have wanted me to watch this.”

He shook his head and selected the title. “Oh, Ginger, you don’t know what you’ve been missing.”

“Why don’t you show me?” I asked, issuing a challenge I knew he wouldn’t accept. “All of it.”

His mouth clamped down tight. “Don’t tempt me.”

“Maybe I like tempting you.”

“No, you really don’t. Now knock it off, or I’ll show you what I do with annoying women who don’t know when to stop.”

Was it wrong I wanted to find out exactly what that was?

And was it just me, or was it hot in here? I took another drink, set my beer down, and pulled my oversized sweatshirt off. Avoiding his eyes, I flung it across the room to my bag. Even though I wore a tight black camisole tank underneath, I felt indecently exposed. What if he thought I was trying to seduce him or something?

Was I trying to seduce him…or something?

As I smoothed my hair with my hand, I stole a quick glance his way. He watched me with hooded eyes. Eyes that saw things I didn’t think I wanted him to see. Standing up, I walked to my bag and dug out my pink shorts I’d brought to sleep in. Shorts that seemed way too short now, but that’s what I always wore to bed. Shorts and a tank top.

Why should I let it bother me now? After all, we were just friends.

Lifting my chin, I squeezed past his outstretched legs, brushing against his thigh as I passed. He stiffened and clung to his armrest, his knuckles white. “What are you doing?”

“Changing into comfy clothes.” I grabbed the waistband of my pants, preparing to strip down behind him. “Don’t turn around. I’m doing it behind you.”

He cleared his throat. “Let me guess. Your ‘comfy clothes’ are the tiny shorts you’re holding and the tank top you’re wearing?”

“Mmhm.”

He dropped his head back against the chair. “Fucking fabulous.”

“If you say so.” I stepped out of my pants, feeling out of place in his apartment. It was the first time I stood in nothing but my underwear in front of a guy, and he wasn’t even looking. Didn’t even want to look. “Do you have a problem with my pajamas?”