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Julian’s gaze drifts over me briefly. “Long enough to know when he’s hiding something.”

I look down at myself. “Me being the something?”

“Can’t blame him. Do you attack everyone who walks in here?”

“Violence is my love language.”

Julian chuckles again. “She bites. Wherever did you find her, Wesley?”

“Hell,” Wes mutters under his breath, clearly fighting a smile. “Lena, please don’t break him. He’s fragile.”

Julian nods slowly. “Yes, very fragile. Handle me carefully.”

I laugh despite myself. “Should I bubble-wrap your ego?”

“I’d prefer silk. Bubble wrap chafes.”

Rolling my eyes, I tilt my head toward Wes. “Does he always require this much attention, or is today special?”

Julian leans closer, grinning. “Special. I dressed up just for you.”

“You dressed like you’re attending your own funeral.”

“Nearly was, if you had your way.” He looks at Wes. “Thanks for saving my life.”

Wes scrubs a hand over his face. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not the first time.”

“I think she secretly likes me,” Julian says, giving me a sweeping once-over. “Beneath that aggressive shell beats a heart longing for Italian suits and impeccable grooming.”

I much prefer men with a scowl covered in grease, but I don’t say that out loud because I’m not insane.

“The only thing my heart longs for right now is to finish cooking without anyone bleeding.”

“Told you. She’s in love with me already.”

Wes grumbles, looking skyward for patience. “Julian, remind me why we’re friends again?”

“Because your taste in friends is impeccable, much like your taste in nannies.”

The sound that comes from the back of Wes’s throat in response is so primal that my thighs squeeze together.

Good lord.

“Eat your apology pasta, or I swear to God I’ll let her finish what she started.” He stands and moves to the sink. Brushing past me, his palm lands gently on the small of my back as he reaches over me to grab something. Don’t ask me what he’s grabbing because I’ve lost the ability to visually process anything.

But even with frazzled thoughts, I know it’s a possessive touch, one that scorches straight through my clothes. My stomach flips, and my heart stutters.

Julian laughs under his breath, clearly noticing my reaction.

Wes notices, too, given how tightly his hands are gripping the edge of the counter. “You’re off the clock, Lena. You should head home.”

“Sure,” I say, trying to steady my voice. “There are leftovers if Rosie wants more dinner, but please limit her guitar session.”

Julian tilts his head. “Is that what we’re calling that racket?”

Wes jerks his chin. “Scientific studies say dads lose hotness points if they criticize baby genius. Lena said so.”

I sputter, grabbing my jacket from the chair. “I’m leaving before you both ruin my carefully constructed science.”