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He runs his fingers across the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah. My brother had them too,” he replies.

I catch the key word.

“Had?” I ask delicately.

Storm shrugs, but I can tell from the set of his shoulders that movement isn’t at all casual. “Yeah. He died about ten years ago. Car accident.”

He shrugs again, but this time, he looks away, behind me. After a moment, he shifts again, moving past me to pull the refrigerator open.

“I’m not much of a cook,” he says, “especially nowhere near your mom. But my dad’s chef meal preps for me and brings stuff to heat up so I don’t go to McDonald’s every day and developcoronary artery disease.” He straightens with two large dishes in his hands.

Placing them on the table, he says, “I’m gonna go with the assumption you haven’t eaten.”

My stomach chooses that moment to growl in his near-silent apartment. His lips twist into a grin.

“I’ll take that as my hypothesis being proven.”

I flush hot.

“So, what’ll it be? chicken marsala or penne a la vodka with Italian sausage?” He lifts his hands as if presenting the two dish options, and I blink at him as my thoughts spin before looking down at my presentation materials.

“Storm—”

“Shae, can youpleasejust let me take care of you?” His words are hard, exasperated, but when I look up at him, his gaze is soft. Another heartbeat passes between us before he adds, “Please.”

And there it is…the moment when I lose the thread tying me to the logic of us not being together. Becausefuck,him wanting to take care of me has me wanting to dive head-long into Storm Sandoval’s universe.

So I let myself live in this terrifying thought: What’s the harm?

“Chicken marsala, please,” I say, my voice much softer and raspier than I expect.

He tilts his chin down, a pleased look crossing his face before he pivots to put the pasta dish back in the refrigerator and taps a few buttons on his oven.

When that’s done, he reaches to the left of the stove and opens the cabinet. Sparkling glasses line the shelves.

“Water, pop, or wine?” he asks, one hand still on the open cabinet pull.

“Water,” I reply quickly, licking my lips. “Unless you have a white wine? A chardonnay, maybe?”

Storm’s addictive sideways grin makes his dimples pop, and goddamn if I don’t want to lick them. Against the soft fabric of my pull-over sweater, my neglected nipples begin to pearl, driving a lightning bolt directly to my clit.

Down. Down, girl.

Filing away my horniness, I breathe deeply and watch as Storm pours purified water—something that looks too expensive because it’s fuckingwater—in two tall glasses before reaching beneath the counter to what I quickly learn is the wine cooler.

“This bottle is brand new,” he says, presenting it to me. At first, I think he’s trying to stunt on the wine label, probably to try to impress me at what’s likely a rare or particularly expensive wine, but then he says, “I just wanted you to see that it’s sealed. I want you to feel safe.”

And just like that, ice washes over me like a frigid shower, and I look down at the swirls in the marble.

“Shit,” he says, but my eyes don’t stray away from the countertop as a weird sensation comes over me.

I wasn’t lying to Ezra when I said I’m all right when it comes to what happened. Shaken, of course, because who wouldn’t be? But in general, Iamokay.

I’m okay because of… I look up at Storm’s troubled face.

I’m okay because Storm was there to save me. And the pure luck he was in the right place at the right time feels like…well, it feels like more than luck. It feels like divine intervention.