His brows drew together. “I’m tidy?”
“Your bathroom is clean, there isn’t a tangle of cargos and skintight shirts all over the floor of your bed platform and your stockpiles of guns and ammo have obviously been cleared away.”
The dimples popped out.
Then he replied, “Disordered house, disordered mind, disordered life, babe.”
This was true. I knew it because Dad had taught me that and it was also a principle I lived by which was why my living room drove me batty.
“I can’t picture you cleaning,” I shared.
“I don’t. Janine does it.”
“Janine?”
“Takes care of this place, takes care of base. Janine’s in charge of order so I can focus on other shit.”
“Hmm,” I mumbled.
He employed a lot of people. He drove a top of the line Camaro. He installed elaborate security systems. He could afford expensive, designer shoes. He could heat a cavernous warehouse to the point he could walk around barefoot and bare-chested and I was comfortable in only his shirt and a thong.
“You live in an old warehouse,” I pointed out the obvious.
“Yeah,” he agreed to the obvious.
“This is a lot of space, Hawk.”
“Yeah,” he agreed.
“A lot of space,” I went on.
He grinned then took a sip of coffee. I did the same.
When his mug came away from his lips, he stated, “Don’t like close. Need room.”
Interesting.
“Well, you’ve got it.”
He grinned again, put down his coffee mug, took mine from my hand, put that down too and then moved into me at the front, his hands sliding around at my waist to my back, wrapping around and pulling me to him.
I rested my hands on his chest and looked up.
“You’re cute in the morning,” he told me.
“I am?” I asked.
“Cute and sweet.”
“Mm,” I mumbled, glad he thought that but I’d always been a morning person. I was a night person too. I was an anytime person when I wasn’t stressy and in a bad mood.
One of his hands left my back and I watched his eyes get heated and intense as they studied my face.
Then he did something beautiful, something amazing, something that, if I’d had any doubts as to my certainty, they would have disintegrated.
He tenderly slid the backs of his knuckles against the skin of my cheek while he muttered, “A year and a half. Totally f**kin’ missed out.”
My belly went squishy.