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He moved across the room and crouched by the door, examining the new lock. His shirt rode up, exposing the hard lines of his back. Scars slashed across his ribs like pale lightning.
My breath caught.
He didn’t see me watching, so he couldn’t see the way his body—coiled, powerful, lethal—was doing things to mine.
He turned.
Caught me staring.
Neither of us looked away.
He stood slowly.
“Lock’s solid now.”
“Thanks,” I whispered.
He was too close.
I was too weak.
Desire hung between us heavy and thick.
I was the first to look away.
“You hungry?” I asked, because my mouth had to do something.
He blinked, and the spell broke. “Always.”
I walked to the kitchen and busied myself with a bag of frozen dumplings and the air fryer Hope had bought me last Christmas.
My hands shook, but I tried to ignore it.
He leaned in the doorway. “You cook?”
“Barely.”
“But you’re cooking for me,” he said.
“I would hardly call this cooking,” I countered.
He smiled. “You trying to impress me, Molly?”
“If I were, you’d know it.”
His grin was slow.
Dangerous.
Promised things that scared me.
Things I wanted with all my heart.
We ate on the couch, legs stretched out, knees almost brushing. He didn’t talk much, but his eyes never left me.
Eventually, I stood.
“I’m going to bed,” I announced.