Page 21 of Bennett (HC Heroes #15)

T he first thing Laurel noticed when she woke was that the apartment didn’t smell like drywall dust or fresh paint anymore. It smelled like brewed coffee.

The second thing? Her lips were still tingling.

Great.

She flopped onto her back and groaned quietly at the ceiling, one arm flung dramatically over her face. “Pull it together, Sinclair,” she whispered. “It was just a kiss.”

Just a kiss.

A really good one. Like, knock-your-socks-off and scramble-your-brain level good. And now her brain was trying to overanalyze every detail—the pressure of his hands, the low growl in his throat, the way he’d kissed her like the world was ending, and she was the only lifeline within reach.

And she had kissed him back. Enthusiastically.

Which was as amazing as it was terrifying.

Because Bennett Vaughn didn’t strike her as the casual, just-for-fun kind of guy. He struck her as the type of man who meant every word he said, every move he made. And if her reaction to one kiss was any indication, she could be in serious trouble.

She rolled out of bed, tugged on a hoodie over her tank top, and remembered to slip on her sneakers, since the glass shards were left in place for the forensic people to process this morning.

The incredible scent of coffee got stronger with each step, and she braced herself before rounding the corner.

There he was.

Mr. Broody himself, standing by the counter with one hand around a coffee mug, the other flipping through one of Brandi’s renovation plans. His hair was damp from a shower, his jaw shadowed with stubble, and his black T-shirt stretched across a chest that had no right to look that good.

He glanced up at her like nothing had happened. “Morning.”

“Morning,” she echoed, grabbing a clean mug and pouring herself a cup as if her pulse wasn’t trying to crack her ribs open.

“You sleep okay?”

“Sure,” she said, sipping her coffee. “You?”

He nodded. “Quiet night. No bricks. Always a plus.”

She smirked. “You say that like it’s a normal thing to have on a checklist.”

“In this town? I’m starting to think it is.”

She leaned against the counter, cradling her mug. “So, about last night.”

His gaze flicked to hers. “What about it?”

“I’m just saying, you know, if that was a stress response? A temporary lapse in judgment?” She shrugged, trying to sound casual even though her face felt about five degrees hotter than it should. “No big deal.”

His brow lifted slightly. “That what you think it was?”

“I mean, well…” Her voice caught. She tried again. “You did sort of kiss me like it was your last day on Earth.”

A flicker of amusement lit in his eyes. “And you kissed me back like you agreed.”

She choked on her sip and glared at him. “I retract everything. I liked you better when you were grumpy and monosyllabic.”

“I’m still grumpy,” he said, lips twitching. “Just caffeinated.”

“Well, that’s a dangerous combination,” she muttered, hiding her smile behind her mug.

The tension that had stretched taut between them since last night didn’t vanish. It simply reshaped itself—lighter, flirty, but no less charged. And beneath all of it, her thoughts whispered a truth she wasn’t ready to admit out loud.

That kiss had felt like a beginning.

And beginnings were risky.

So, for now, she’d drink her coffee, pretend she wasn’t thinking about his mouth, and try very hard not to throw herself at him again.

Well, maybe not very hard.

Bennett set his coffee on the counter, gaze still locked on hers.

It was that look again. The one that made her feel like he could see right through the casual sarcasm, straight into the nerves she was trying to keep under control.

He took a step closer. “Just for the record…”

Laurel’s breath hitched. “Yeah?”

“That kiss last night?” His voice dropped low, rough around the edges, and her stomach fluttered in response. “It wasn’t a mistake.”

A thrill rushed through her, interrupting her pulse. She agreed. It wasn’t a mistake. It was amazing.

Wait.

No, no, no.

That was definitely not what she needed to hear while standing in her kitchen wearing a hoodie and sleep-tousled hair. Or maybe it was exactly what she needed, because now her heart was doing that thing again, cartwheeling around her ribcage like a caffeinated squirrel.

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

Because Bennett had taken another step forward. He was close enough now that she could feel the heat radiating off him. His hand lifted, slowly and deliberately, to brush a strand of hair from her cheek, fingertips grazing her skin in a way that left goosebumps in their wake.

“Bennett…”

“If you don’t want me to—”

“I didn’t say that,” she whispered, because, oh yeah, she wanted him to even if it wasn’t smart.

He leaned in, his gaze flicking from her mouth to her eyes and back again, before he lowered his lips to hover over hers.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

A sharp knock rattled the door.

Laurel jerked back, wide-eyed. “Seriously?”

Bennett exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening like it took real effort not to say exactly what he was thinking. “I swear, this building has a sixth sense for bad timing.”

She blinked up at him, her cheeks flushed, trying to get her pulse under control. “It’s probably Brandi. Or one of the contractors. Or the ESI guys.”

“Or the forensic team Gabe promised.” He moved to the door, muttering something under his breath about bricks, cockblocks, and crime scenes.

Laurel snorted softly and hugged her mug to her chest as she leaned to watch him walk to the entrance. Blue jeans were meant to be worn by that man.

He opened the door just wide enough to reveal a pair of serious-looking men in black polos with official-looking kits in hand.

“CSI,” one of them said. “We’re here to take a look at the window damage.”

Bennett stepped aside and gestured them in without a word, his face slipping back into that unreadable, professional expression.

Laurel sighed.

So close.

She took another long sip of coffee and murmured, “This place really needs a doorbell.”

Fifteen minutes after the forensic team started collecting samples and snapping more photos, Brandi Dalton arrived. She knocked once, then pushed the door open with her hip, balancing a large roll of floor plans, a tote bag, and a travel mug that read “Don’t Make Me Use My Designer Voice.”

Laurel smiled as the woman breezed in looking beautiful, friendly, and cheerful.

Brandi was a little taller than Laurel, curvy and effortlessly stylish in a black scoop-neck top, distressed jeans, and ankle boots.

Her caramel-colored hair was piled into a messy twist that still managed to look like it belonged in a fashion magazine, sun-kissed highlights catching the light as she moved.

Hazel-green eyes scanned the room before landing on Laurel with sharp, practiced focus.

But it wasn’t her designer aura that stood out. It was the quiet compassion that softened her features as she crossed the room.

“Hey,” Brandi said, setting her things down. Her voice was gentler now. “You okay?”

Laurel opened her mouth to say yes, but something must’ve shown on her face, because Brandi stepped forward and lightly touched her arm. Not intrusive. Just enough to ground her.

“Really okay?” she asked again, eyes kind.

Laurel nodded. “Getting there.”

Brandi gave her arm a reassuring squeeze, then let go and straightened. “Well, you’re not rocking a nervous breakdown look, so that’s promising.”

“In this town, I’m starting to think that’s considered fashionable,” Laurel muttered.

That earned a smirk from Brandi as she pulled out a clipboard. “Perfect, because we’ve got things to discuss.”

Laurel blinked, caught off guard. “Wait…now?”

Good thing she wasn’t working at the diner today.

The designer plopped onto one of the stools and crossed her legs. “No time like the present. Besides, I work better when there’s chaos and overpriced coffee in the air.” She took a sip from her mug and raised an eyebrow. “So? Ready for your unofficial promotion?”

Laurel laughed, the sound catching her off guard with how normal it felt. “You mean to Renovation Queen of Winslow Fine Furnishings?”

“Exactly. Though I’m willing to negotiate on the title. How about Project Manager of Doom?”

“Very tempting.”

Brandi pulled out a sheet from her clipboard and pushed it toward her.

“Here’s where we’re at: We’ve got two teams—mine for design and finishing work, and a second team for structural and electrical.

Flooring’s nearly done in two units. Next door is ready for sheetrock.

Plumbing’s complete in that one and yours and partially roughed in on the others.

We’re scheduled for cabinetry installs in the second apartment tomorrow. ”

Laurel blinked at the sheer amount of progress. “You’ve been busy.”

“Busy is how I avoid stress-eating my body weight in cookies.” Brandi leaned forward, her voice softer now. “But seriously, I meant what I told your aunt. I’ll do everything I can to stay on track. What happened here last night won’t change that.”

Laurel swallowed past a tight throat. “Thanks. Really. I know it’s a lot.”

“Which is why we’re doing this together.” Brandi gestured toward her tote. “I brought fabric samples for the stairwell benches, but we can look at them later. I also want your opinion on the storefronts.”

“You’re asking me?”

Brandi blinked. “You live here. You’re helping coordinate. You survived an assault by mortar. Pretty sure that makes you qualified.”

Laurel smiled despite the lump in her throat. “You know, I didn’t think I’d be part of any of this when I came to town.”

“Well,” Brandi said, reaching into her bag again, “Harland has a funny way of drafting people into its plans. Take me for example. I’m a transplant from Pennsylvania.”

Her smile widened. “Thought I detected a slight accent.”