She ducked her head, doing her damnedest to pretend she didn’t hear him. To pretend she didn’t know what would happen if she turned around. Jamie didn’t turn around. She made it to Dale’s car, clutching the leather strap of her purse in a white-knuckled grip. A part of her wanted to haul around and deck him. Another part wanted to turn around and kiss him, then take him somewhere, anywhere, and finish what they’d started. She was tugging futilely at the locked car door when he caught up to her. His hand wrapped far too gently around her upper arm, near her armpit, his knuckles brushing her breast. She dragged a deep shuddering breath in, placed her palm on the window, refusing to turn around. “What do you want, Chase?” Jamie hated how quivery and breathy and damned needy her voice sounded. “You.” His voice was raw, growling, as if the admission had been dragged out of his chest. “Well, you can’t have me.” “I know, but…” His grip tightened on Jamie’s arm, and then he let go with a long, expelled breath.
