Cross The Line

CHAPTER EIGHT

"Did the first caterpillar to ever change into a butterfly just totally freak the hell out?"

- Phoebe West, pondering evolution.

My gaze flies in his direction. I feel my face reddening like a tomato on speed as I take in the man standing less than a foot away.

Coppery-gold hair, just a tad overgrown, falling over a set of greenish-blue eyes that are lasered-in on my face and, at the moment, twinkling with humor. A wry smile plays out on a set of seriously sexy, full lips — lips that my mortified brain is only now realizing, have produced words.

Words with an accent.

An Irish accent.

Holy frack. The sound alone makes my ovaries dance a double jig — two little sexual step-dancers, suddenly all too excited to meet my date who, I must admit, looks nothing like a mouth-breathing cretin. In fact, he looks like Jamie Frasier from Outlander — which, without the separation of a television screen, is nearly enough to make me stop breathing.

His eyebrows waggle in playful question, and I realize I've completely zoned out.

"Um," I squeak intelligently.

Lila's laughing — I can hear her cackling away on my right — but I don't move my eyes from the man invading my space.

He leans closer and I feel my mouth go dry. Other parts of my body are not quite so arid.

Like my sweaty palms. And the uncharted territory between my le—

"Sometimes," he whispers conspiratorially, cutting off a dangerous train of thought. "My dates even call me Cormack. Though, only when I monologue about wrestling. In my experience, girls love a lengthy discussion of muscle men in spandex."

He's teasing me.

My mind reels for an appropriately witty retort, but I can't seem to come up with anything. Not when he's staring at me with those eyes. Not quite green, not quite blue, altogether too focused on me. I search desperately for something — anything — to say, and finally settle on his name.

"Cormack," I echo, brilliant as ever.

His eyes glimmer with humor. Extending a hand into the space between us, he grins in what I can only describe as a devilish manner.

"And you must be Phoebe."

My stomach does a Celtic treble reel when he murmurs my name, his accent elongating the vowels.

Yeh must be Phey-bee.

Am I drooling? I think I might be drooling.

With as much composure as I can muster, I slide my hand into his. The skin of his palm is warm and slightly callused; his thumb strokes across my knuckles with feather-light sensuality — just once, but it's enough to send the butterflies into another tizzy. I take a deep breath and order myself to pull it together.

"Phoebe West," I confirm, craning my neck in an attempt at a flirty head tilt. It always seems to work for Lila. Judging by Cormack's raised eyebrows, I look more along the lines of a car-crash victim with whiplash.

Pretending not to hear the feminine snorts of amusement coming from my (former) best friend, I straighten my head to normal angles and suppress a mortified grimace.

My mortification quickly fades when Cormack lifts my hand to his lips and presses a soft kiss to the fragile skin there.

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Phoebe." A grin tugs at his lips. "Even if it's not a pleasure you share."