did all sorts of terrible things to my insides when he looked at me. And his body. God. I followed him into the kitchen, tilting my head to watch his ass as he walked. The way he filled out his jeans was nothing short of remarkable.
“Sky?”
I gasped, realizing that not only had I walked into the kitchen without noticing where I was or what I was doing, but he’d sat down at the table, leaving his crutches leaning against it while I’d been lost in thought.
“Sorry. I was just… thinking again.”
“About bodies found in a beaver dam?”
No, but that’s a better answer than the way your ass looks in your jeans. “Yeah.”
“Is that for the book you’re writing? I guess that’s a dumb question. Of course it is. You’re not a detective or FBI agent who’d be investigating a real body found in a beaver dam.”
“No. Just a writer. And not really. I was just doing the dishes and it got me thinking.”
“You do that a lot, don’t you?”
“What?”
“Think.”
I blinked at him. “Doesn’t everybody?”
“No.”
Laughing softly, I sat at the table with him. “I suppose it was my turn for a dumb question. Of course not everybody thinks a lot.”
“Nope. I have some friends who never think about anything. Or at least it seems like they don’t.”
“Then what do they do all the time?” I asked, although I hadn’t really meant to ask it aloud.
He tapped the table with his index finger. “They do stuff, I guess. Work, eat, hang out with their buddies or girlfriends, drink beer, sleep.”
“Sounds kind of nice. Simpler.”
“Simpler than what?”
I took a deep breath to clear my head. “Simpler than thinking too much. Which I’m pretty good at doing.”
“Overthinker, huh? Good to know.”
“Why is that good to know?”
He shrugged. “Just is.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “What are you doing here? My dad’s at work.”
“Oh, I know. I was just there.”
“So why are you here?”
He grinned at me, flashing those dangerous dimples. “I brought cookies.”
“That’s… nice but strange.”
“Why strange?” He set a plastic container on the table.
“Do you always bring random girls cookies?”
He paused, like he was thinking about it. “No. But you’re not a random girl either. Anyway, I made cookies earlier and I figured I’d bring you some.”
“You made these?”
“Yep. My friend Cara was bored and invited me over to bake with her.”
His friend Cara? What did that mean? And why did the thought of him baking cookies with someone named Cara make my spine prickle like I’d been poked with a needle?
“Oh.”
One corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile. “Not that kind of friend.” He took a cookie out of the container and set it in front of me. “Try one.”
I glanced between him and the cookie.
“Are you always so suspicious? Here.” He took the cookie, broke it in half, shoved some in his mouth, and set the other half back in front of me.
I picked it up and took a bite. My teeth sank into a perfect combination of chewy and crumbly. The chocolate chips were still a little warm and melty.
“Wow. This is really good.”
He licked the corner of his mouth and I was too mesmerized by the sight of his tongue on his lip to realize he was, consciously or unconsciously, signaling that I had chocolate on my face. Until he reached over and swiped it with his thumb.
His sudden touch surprised me so much I gasped.
Then he put his thumb in his mouth and sucked off the chocolate.
It was moments like this that made me question the power of the brain body connection—or at least question which direction it ran. Was my brain in charge of my body, or the other way around? Because right now, my body was telling my brain things that were very bad.
So very, very bad.
Flee, Skylar. Run like the wind. Save yourself.
I stood abruptly and grabbed a paper towel off the roll. “Do you need one?”
“Sure.”
I didn’t know why I was so flustered. I told myself—firmly—to get it together, and handed him a paper towel.
“Thanks.”
For a second, I contemplated whether I should sit down again. A part of me wished he’d go. He made me jumpy and that smile of his was a deadly weapon.
But another part of me—a big part, if I was being honest—did want to sit down. Wanted to hear him talk and gaze at him in all his hot firefighter glory.
A firefighter. I’d never written about a firefighter before. His nemesis could be a serial arsonist and when a