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I never saw this coming. Did you? I bet you did, didn’t you?

And you know, I had a feeling Tathan had some secrets. Just one look at the dude and it’s certain he has them. No man who looks like him is single without a reason for being single.

“How could I have been so blind? I mean. . . how could I havenotseen this coming?”

I’m asking all these questions to Oliver, who has a small drop of paint on his back.

It’s Sunday morning and I’m painting my kitchen. I like to paint to distract myself. My apartment has so many different colors in it now you’d think I was a paint store.

My thoughts must have been on Tathan because I went with a chocolate color for my kitchen. Consequently, this makes me think of his eyes.

Most people don’t paint apartments, but I do. Yeah, I’ll change it back, but I like to be at home and painting makes me feel at home.

After my second coat, I’m getting into my music selection and starting to shake my ass a little. Okay, I’m not gonna lie. I’m shaking my ass like I’m auditioning for a music video, which reminds me of the dance with Tathan at the Red Revolver.

Once the song’s finished, I’m panting, out of breath and clutching my side. “Damn, Oliver, I really need to do more cardio.”

And then there’s a clapping sound.

Turning quickly—though I don’t want to—I’m met with Tathan standing there, no shirt, watching in just a pair of worn khaki shorts sporting that same damn smirk.

I hate him. His Sunday morning looks are just as good as the other six days of the week.

Why does he have to be so hot? And he’s half-naked again to tease me.

Does he ever walk around fully clothed?

Doubtful with that body. I would probably walk around naked as well if my stomach looked like that.

“Don’t stop on my account, Amalie,” he says with an amused smirk, his twinkling eyes focused on my ass as he motions for me to continue.

Oliver looks up at him and growls at Tathan, but doesn’t move. It’s apparent Tathan’s not worth the effort to him at the moment.

“What do you want and how did you get in here?” I growl, sounding a little like Oliver. I admit, I’m a little embarrassed at the show I gave him and still peeved that he didn’t tell me he’s Elliott Warren.

He shrugs once, seemingly not deterred by the harshness and hands me a paper. “Sunday paper. Wasn’t sure if you’re the kind of girl who looks through sales ads.”

He knows I’m not. This is his way to annoy me or get me to like him. Probably a little of both at this point.

“I’m capable of retrieving my own paper,thank you.” I’m only bitter because I feel so damn exposed here. I was just shaking my ass shamelessly not knowing I had an audience.

I want your mouth on me.

Shit. Stop!

He nods, his right hand running over his jaw. “You keep telling me that.”

I love your hands. I want them on my body.

“But yet you never listen.”

“I know.” He’s smirking again. “It gives me an excuse to talk to you.” He leans up against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. “You could continue.” He motions with his hands. “I was enjoying myself.”

“I’m sure you were, buddy. I don’t do private dances,” I tell him. “And you are going to need to wash off that paint before it sticks to you.”

His brow furrows. “What paint?”

“The paint on your arm.” I try not to laugh.