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“Amelia,” he says again.
“Mmm?” I try to lift my eyes from his gorgeous torso, but I keep imagining how warm and strong it would feel under my palm. How many muscles are there? I should count. 1…2…3…
“You said this was life or death.”
I purse my lips. “That’s a dramatic claim.”
He clears his throat.
Oh, right. I did say that, and not about his chest. I shake my head and look up at his eyes. He doesn’t bother hiding his smirk. Which is fine. I didn’t bother hiding my ogling.
“Liam sent me a package,” I say, stepping to the side so he can come in.
“You said that on the phone.” He brushes past me and a rush of warmth comes with him, making me dizzy in his wake. He still smells delicious while all sweaty. It shouldn’t be possible but somehow it is. “What was it?”
“I, uh.” I slip back around him and point to the box on the table. “I didn’t open it.”
He doesn’t reach for it. “Why not?”
“What if it’s a bomb?”
“Oh, so you wanted someone else to die instead of you?”
“Would you like me to hold your hand while you open it?” I retort.
He snorts then picks up the box, ripping through the tape. I’m hypnotized by the way his muscles ripple in his arms with the effort. I will never see muscles the same way again. In my kitchen. The late sun filtering through the window, casting golden light across his glorious torso. The smell of barbecue out on the shared patio in the courtyard.
Now I’m hungry.
And maybe slightly delirious?
Caleb gets the box open and I crouch down, holding my breath as I squeeze Shawn and Gus as close to me as possible. Please don’t be a bomb. Please don’t be a bom…
Caleb snorts.
My heart stops. “What? What is it?”
He pulls a small pineapple-covered piece of material out of a box. “I believe it’s sweaters for your dogs.”
Oh. Well, that’s embarrassing.
His laughter pulls the rest of the tension from the room and draws me nearer simultaneously.
“This isn’t funny.” I smack his arm which is firm, very firm. As suspected. “You need to do something.”
He schools his smile. “Like what?” he asks, packing the sweater back into the box.
“Like take it in. As evidence.” Why am I doing his job for him? “What if the sweaters are a murder weapon?”
He looks at me as if I accused a man of killing someone with a piece of animal clothing. Oh wait, I did.
“A dog sweater?” He doesn’t even try to hide his disbelief.
“I’m sure it’s happened before.”
“I thought you said he was innocent.”
“I never said he was innocent.” I scoff, and he raises a brow. “Okay, fine. I may consider jumping ship to your side. Happy?”