Break Your Heart by Rhonda Helms Page B

nodded. It was funny how comfortable I was feeling around him now. The anxiety from earlier had seeped away. In its place was a glow in my chest that made the car seem intimate and cozy.
    “Why math? You seem like you could be good at anything. What made you choose this field?”
    I laughed. “If you met my parents, you’d understand.” I explained how both of my folks worked together in a very math-driven industry—construction. How my mom had reared me on blueprints. How Dad took me to work with a little hard hat and explained the math and physics behind renovation. “They taught me a love of precision,” I said, smiling. “Math is constant. It’s ordered. It’s comforting. And, frankly, it gets a bad rap. I think we need more women in math. We need more people of color in math.” With that, I gave him a knowing look. “Haven’t we had enough of old white men in the industry?”
    He tipped his head, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “You make good points.”
    The easiness of conversation between us, plus the alcohol still lingering in my system, made me brave. I leaned forward a touch. “Tell me something no one else knows about you.”
    He paused at that and seemed to consider my request. I was afraid he was going to say no, he was silent for so long. I bit my lower lip as I waited.
    “I hate pretzels.” He blanched. “God, that was lame, wasn’t it? Not exactly earth-shattering conversational skills here.” His chuckle was awkward.
    “I’m not a big fan of them either, unless they’re smothered in chocolate,” I said in an effort to ease his discomfort. “I’m also picky about wine. I find it pretentious and overly sweet. I never told anyone that before. My parents always drink wine, so I have it with them, but . . . I prefer beer.”
    “Maybe you just haven’t had the right kind,” he said, the corner of his mouth turning up. “There are a lot of sweet types, but you might enjoy a drier wine.”
    “You’re probably right.” I snorted. “But in the meantime, I just smile and sip.”
    The heat kicked up, probably in response to the dropping temps outside. I tugged my zipped coat away from my neckline, then unzipped it. As my zipper moved down, his eyes followed the path.
    My pulse throbbed in my throat and my lips parted. With the renewed surge of heat was another whiff of his soap. Clean and fresh. I wanted to bury my mouth along the pulse at the base of his throat. Taste his skin.
    “Megan,” he said in a low groan. His eyes looked tortured.
    In a rush, I leaned forward and pressed my mouth to his. He froze and I heard his rapid inhale. Then he opened his mouth and we fused together in a rush of heat and desire. My skin tingled all over as I swept my tongue along his.
    He deepened the kiss, slanted his lips over mine. Devoured me, set me on fire. My nipples hardened, and my body reacted with a vivid slam of lust.
    Then he was pushing me away, his breath coming out in ragged pants. “No. Absolutely not. This cannot happen.”
    It was a bucket of cold water over my head. Mortification swept over me, hard and fast. Oh God, I’d thrown myself at him. I scrabbled for my zipper and tugged it all the way up. “I’m sorry. I just . . . I’m going now.”
    With that, I ripped the door open and left his car like the devil was on my heels.
    I keyed the door of my apartment and went in, leaned back against the door. Hot tears burned the backs of my eyes. Idiot! I smacked my forehead. What was I thinking, kissing him like that?
    I’d never had a guy physically push me away before, like he’d been repelled by me.
    My head swam. I stumbled into the kitchen and chugged a glass of water. There were two beers inside the door of the fridge. I was tempted to chug them down, but I’d probably had enough at this point. So I went into the bathroom, stripped off my clothes and took a long, hot shower instead.
    Tried to not think about how good he had tasted. How he’d made me feel alive with that