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He catches me by the waist before I can fully collapse, steadying me with one of those big, grease-stained hands. “Easy, baby. Gotta keep you running, remember?”

I gasp. “You mean like… metaphorically?”

He smirks. “Sure.” Then he leans in, close enough that I feel the heat of his breath on my cheek. “Also sexually.”

I slap his arm and keep walking.

God, I love him.

Chapter Eight

Dean

So. Turns out the hot little lunatic who kidnapped me just wants to keep me safe.

And I mean, sure. There’s the whole tied-to-a-bed thing. And the drugging me thing. And I guess technically the unlawful detainment part. But honestly? I’ve had worse first dates.

And she made me pizza with fresh basil.

So, yeah. I’m in.

She’s walking ahead of me now, giving me the grand tour like this is her Barbie Dream Bunker and I just won the contest to move in.

“This is the pantry,” she says, opening the door like she’s proud of her stockpile, which she should be. The shelves are ridiculous. Like a doomsday-themed grocery store. “Canned goods on the left, freeze-dried on the right. Those buckets have flour, sugar, rice…”

I nod like I’m listening, but I’m really not, because she’s bending over to pull open a lower cabinet and Jesus Christ, that ass.

My cock twitches. Just one little warning nudge, like, hey, bro, you seeing this?

Yes. Yes, I am.

She’s wearing jeans and that shirt that’s not quite a T-shirt, like, she wants me to think it’s casual, but the fit? The fit is doing things. It’s fitted like a fantasy. Nips in at the waist. Stretches over her tits like it’s barely surviving.

And she’s talking about beans.

I don’t hear anything after ‘lentils,’ because she tilts her head, that messy ponytail sliding over one shoulder, and her mouth is right there. Glossy, pink, a little smug.

God. I’ve made a lot of bad choices with women.

But none of them had a tactical map of the apocalypse, a month-by-month survival plan, and an ass like this.

I think about my latest ex, Pamela, just briefly, Pamela with her ferret collection and the homemade chloroform and the screaming. Pam didn’t have a pantry, that’s all I’m saying.

“Tools are this way,” Maple says, leading me down another hallway. “I set up a whole workbench. Labeled things. I hope that’s okay.”

“You labeled my tools?” I ask, grinning.

“Well, I don’t know your system yet,” she says, like this is normal. Like I do live here. “But I figured if I started one, you’d just fix it.”

“That’s dangerously close to foreplay, baby,” I say.

She snorts but I see the smile tugging at her mouth.

We stop in front of a locked room. She keys it open like this is her version of sexy lingerie, just here’s your space, sweetheart. Enjoy the bunker. Let me show you where I keep the zip ties.

When the door swings open, I see the workbench.

And damn.