Free Out of Her League by Samantha Wayland

possible until her hip bone tucked up
against his groin, way too close to his dick. He shifted, but that really
didn’t help at all.
    Think about something else!
    Six weeks. He often went six weeks without
touching people, didn’t he? He thought back and remembered his sister hugging
him, and Rhian’s leg pressed to his in a booth while they had a beer. Even Anna,
pulling a chair up to the desk so they could go over student’s work with their
shoulders pressed together.
    What if he didn’t have any of that for six
weeks? With no real hope that it would change?
    He shuddered. That was…that was actually a really
long time.
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize. I
can touch you more. I like touching you,” he added helpfully, about two seconds
before it occurred to him what he’d just said.
    Michaela started shaking again, her hands
clenched in his shirt as a delicate snort vibrated against his shoulder.
    “Oh! No. I just said, but I didn’t—I mean…”
he trailed off.
    Jesus fucking Christ .
     He dropped his arms in utter defeat. He
could only imagine what his face was doing, since it felt like it was on fire
and when she stepped back, her expression became concerned, if still highly
amused.
    “You okay?”
    He opened his mouth. Twice. She waited
patiently, her eyes bright, her smile poorly contained. Finally, he just shook
his head.
    She looked sympathetic, and on anyone else
it might have been patronizing, but her smile was genuine and her hand on his
arm was gentle. “No words, huh?”
    He grimaced, his cheeks still ablaze.
    “How about that breakfast, then?” she said
breezily, as if the last ten minutes hadn’t been a little bit of a fucking
disaster. As if he weren’t a complete fucking disaster.
     
     
     Michaela strolled along the street with
Lachlan utterly silent at her side. His color had returned to normal, at least,
but he didn’t seem ready to speak yet.
    She could wait.
    He directed them to Stella’s, a little
restaurant on a side street, packed with people both inside and under umbrella
tables on the patio out front. Michaela hesitated before going through the
door, wary of such close quarters. This could be bad.
    Lachlan’s hand on her back gently urged her
forward and she went, if for no other reason than after terrorizing the poor
man this morning, the least she could do was try to suck it up for one meal.
    The hostess recognized her instantly, if
her slow, stunned blink was any indication. But she also recognized Lachlan.
    “The library, Dr. Morrison?”
    “Yes, please,” he said.
    The hostess led them through the restaurant,
countless heads swiveling as they passed. The muscles in Michaela’s back were
so tight by the time they’d made it to the hallway, it was a wonder she could
walk at all. It was pure relief to escape into the enclosed stairway to the
second floor, and she gasped with unexpected pleasure when it led them to
another, quieter dining room—this one lined with built-in shelves, laden with old
books.
    “Wow,” Michaela breathed, looking around.
There were only ten tables up here, well-spaced and separated by tall plants
and more free-standing shelves. Theirs was by the fireplace, the mantle lined
with books, antique clocks, and a couple of stuffed pheasants.
    She eyed the birds frozen mid-strut glaring
down at her. “You got a thing for taxidermy?” she asked wryly once they were
alone.
    Lachlan looked up sharply. “No?”
    He speaks!
    “The Natural History Museum, and now these
sad souls,” she said, waving at the pair of fowl.
    Lachlan’s lips quirked and he shook his
head. “Coincidence.”
    “Uh huh,” she drawled, like that was utter
bullshit.
    “I thought it would be sufficiently private
up here for you to be able to relax and speak freely.”
    “Oh,” she said, touched by his
thoughtfulness. “Thanks. This is great.”
    He nodded once as he carefully studied the
menu she could guess he’d seen plenty of times, given his