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The man hadn’t heard her come out of her room. Or if he had, he hadn’t turned. He simply stood at the sink, eating a piece of toast, shirtless and wearing nicely pressed khakis. The incongruity of it all broke the piece of Shay’s brain that wasn’t actively figuring out the best way to bust his skull in.
There was a small tattoo on his left shoulder blade, a design she couldn’t recognize, and he was smiling out the window as if watching something amusing.
The man wasn’t behaving like an intruder, but Shay wasn’t about to drop her guard. That would be the kind of stupid that got someone killed.
Her bare feet sank into a sticky patch of carpet where she’d spilled her soda the other day. The sensation reminded her that she had to givethe whole place a deep clean, and she immediately shook her head at the thought. She needed to focus.
Shay crept up close while his attention was still locked on the window. When she got nearly within swinging distance, she raised the bat to her shoulder in the perfect stance. She’d played all four years on her high school’s softball team, not that there was a lot of competition.
Focus.
She shifted her weight, readying herself, but that’s when the squeaky tile they hadn’t gotten around to fixing gave away her presence. The man flinched, then turned, his eyes going wide. He held up his hands, palms out, in a universal gesture of peace.
Men lied, though.
“Who the hell are you?” Shay yelled. “You have three seconds before I crack your fucking skull open.”
“Jes-us.” That was Beau, the back door slamming behind him. In one smooth gesture, he plucked the bat out of Shay’s hands. “He’s going to think we’re feral.”
Before she could stop herself, she bared her teeth at her brother, snapped them a bit.
“Oh my god,” he groaned, and then pushed her toward her bedroom. “Pants might be nice.”
She glanced down to see she was in a T-shirt and boys’ briefs, which, when it came down to it, were more modest than a bikini, but she didn’t argue. She didn’t exactly want to give the stranger a free show.
Beau was still apologizing for her when she walked back into the kitchen, pulling on a pair of jean shorts. She hopped up on the counter and assessed the strange man with a new eye, now knowing he was at least an acquaintance of Beau’s.
He was objectively gorgeous, with thick honey-blonde hair that had lighter streaks in it from the summer. His face was that kind of symmetrical that scientists said babies came out of the womb preferring. His muscles had muscles, and she wasn’t sure she’d seen abs like that outside of a movie screen.
The man’s eyes—an incredible shade of blue that had probably inspired many a teen girl to sigh over her diary—dragged along her body in a similarly assessing fashion. Normally, she would prickle under that kind of gaze, but she’d felt plenty of stares in her life. His wasn’t predatory. It was more like he was checking for hidden weapons.
“Sorry,” she said, but she knew everyone in the room could hear she didn’t mean it. “Maybe you shouldn’t stand shirtless in random women’s homes at the ass crack of dawn, though.”
Beau groaned and ran a hand over his face. Again, he whispered, “Oh my god.”
But the man just laughed, an appealing, self-deprecating thing. “I’m not usually in the habit of acting like a creepy serial killer, but that’s a good note for any possible next time.”
Shay’s mouth twitched up, almost involuntarily. “Do you have a list, then? Of how not to be creepy?”
“One item so far,” the man said. “I’m sure you’d be a font of advice, though.”
“Here, drink your coffee.” Beau shoved a mug into Shay’s hands like a distraction but also like an apology. He’d made it just the way she liked it. “Sorry, I didn’t think we’d wake you.”
“It wasn’t you,” she said, gracious now that she had her caffeine. “Weird dream or something.” She turned her attention back to the man. “Why are you shirtless? It’s, like, nine in the morning.”
Not early for the general populace, of course, but for Shay, who’d closed the bar last night, it might as well have been dawn.
The man’s brows wrinkled. “Does the time have to do with whether that’s acceptable behavior or not?”
“Ah, research for your list, huh?” she asked, tapping her temple. “Smart.”
This sounded like flirting on the surface level, but it was the kind of flirting Shay did with the old men at the bar. Both sides knew there was no intent behind the teasing, so it became harmless fun.
“Shirtless is only okay in someone else’s home if it’s after noon and you’re day drinking,” Shay informed him. “It has to be both of those things together.”
“Or your dumbass friend spilled coffee all over you on the way to work,” Beau chimed in, rummaging through the closet that had probably been intended for coats. Instead, Beau hung all his nice shirts in there. He pulled one free and tossed it and an undershirt to his friend.
“My car’s in the shop, and Beau’s been giving me a ride, since I live about five minutes that way,” the man explained, hooking his thumb over his shoulder in some vague direction. He pulled the undershirt over his head, covering up the work of art that was his six-pack. Shay sighed in general disappointment. She might not be attracted to him—and she refused to think Callum Kilkenny was to blame for that—but she could still appreciate beauty when she saw it. “Most days I wouldn’t have minded the stain, but I have an important meeting. Beau said we could swing by here, though he didn’t mention the baseball bats.”