“Obviously.” I step around him, needing some space, still feeling his hand splayed across my belly.
“Big plans today, Savvy Sutton. Had to work out before you and I hit the kitchen and bust out some Christmas cookies.”
“What?” I ask, trying not to get overly excited.
“The ’rents won’t be home in time to make them, and I’m not planning to disappoint Santa this year.”
“Oh, please, I’m thinking, when you fucked Chloe, you hit the naughty list, and I’m gonna bet it wasn’t the first time this year.”
“You ever gonna forgive me for banging your roommate?” he asks, walking over to the weights, lifting them and putting them on a rack.
“You don’t need my forgiveness, little dude. That’s between you and Santa.”
“Little dude?” he asks, his eyebrow arched as he flexes his man boobs and makes them bounce again.
“Educated guess, using the equation drawn up by scholars all over when trying to figure out why men like to pick things up and put them down.” I hold up my pinky.
“You got three—”
“What?” I ask as he steps toward me and I step back.
“Two …”
I plant my hands on my hips. “And what are you gonna do?”
“You better run.” He narrows his eyes. “One.”
Squealing like a little kid being chased by the neighbor’s dog, I run, and I run hard. Right before I hit the bottom of the stairs, he grabs me, tosses me around like a rag doll, and runs up the stairs.
“Oh my God, you’re all nasty!” I yell. “Sweaty and nasty!”
Laughing, he pulls me up and sets my ass on something hard.
“I told you to run,” he says as he steps back, smiling.
“What is wrong with you?” I ask, wiping the pretend sweat off my body. “Ew, you got me all nasty.”
He plants his hand over his chest, above his heart. “Forgive me?”
I shrug and pretend to ponder the thought as he looks down then smirks.
Only then do I realize I’m swinging my feet, like some smitten girly girl.
I push myself off the kitchen countertop. “I really need to get my van. Marcy’s probably worried I’m back in the woods, lost somewhere, and she’ll have to work more eighty-hour weeks.”
“I’m going to shower,” he says, turning around. “Your ride’s here, parked in the garage. Battery was dead, and it needed oil.”
“What?!”
He doesn’t stop, taking the stairs two at a time. “Do me a favor and look in the cabinets under the island for a recipe book. Cover looks handmade.” His voice fades slightly as he walks past the opening and down the hallway. “Says Forever Steel Christmas.”
Unbelievable.
Opening cupboard after cupboard, each organized perfectly and nothing falling out onto the floor, like all my homes from my last life, I laugh out loud for even thinking it. It’s like comparing diamonds to dildos, and that thought makes me snort.
“Savvy, you okay down there?” Patrick calls from somewhere.
“I’m just peachy.” Actually pervy, I correct myself.
“It’s always the last cupboard.”
He startles me.
Still crouching, I turn and look up. “Don’t be a creeper.”
When my ankle turns the wrong way, and I start to fall back into the cupboard, I do what any sensible person would do—I grab something to steady me. That something happens to be gray material—his sweats. When they start to come down, I let go.
“Jesus, Savvy.” He laughs as he once again hefts me up. “Not sure what the hell has you off balance.” He laughs as I slap at his hands then sidestep. “You’re either falling for me, or you want to know the answer to the question all girls want to know.”
“Well, it’s not the former,” I say, hurrying around the island.
“Then the answer is boxers, but you already knew that from the little—”
“So?” My voice screeches. “You literally washed my undies.”
“Boy shorts. Cotton. Cute.”
“Okay.” I feel my face turn red. “Moving on to cookies.”
“Perfect.” He snickers as he squats down, giving me a reprieve from his … his … him.
I feel like I’m losing my damn mind, and I am, I totally am.
He stands up, plain white tee stretching across his insanely chiseled body, producing the book. “Found it.” He pushes it across the island where I am sitting in the same place I was last night, which is several feet away from him, thankfully. Then he pulls his phone from the pocket of the sweats and looks at it. “Shit.”
“Hot date?” I ask, pushing the book back across the countertop and standing. “Perfect. The two of you can make cookies.”