Page 46 of This Wild Heart

Anya pulled in a short, hissing breath. “Sorry. Are you okay?”

I rubbed the side of my head. “Sure. Can’t wait to tell my coach that I got a concussion because you like to fucking sneak up on people in the middle of the night.”

“As much as I’d like to agree with you, it’s almost four thirty, not the middle of the night.” She leaned against the island, sleep-mussed hair tugged into a messy ponytail and a dark shirt covering her body. I couldn’t see her legs, which was probably good for my mental health. “And from the looks of it, you’ve been up for a while.”

Thank God it was dark in the kitchen because guaran-fucking-teed my cheeks were bright red. “Right, umm, just … popping some breakfast in the oven for later.”

Her eyes were level on mine, and the way I felt that look in the center of my chest was criminal. “You’re baking at four o’clock in the morning,” she said slowly.

I rubbed the back of my neck. “Who said I was baking? I just … put them in the oven.”

She pursed her lips, clearly unconvinced. “Louise was not here to make any dough yesterday.”

“Is this an interrogation?” I snapped.

Something was wrong with her because Anya’s mouth curled up in a pleased little smile. “No. I just heard something out here and decided to make sure we weren’t getting robbed.”

My eyes widened. “And you came out here if that was a possibility? You could, I don’t know, call me in my room and tell me to check?”

Anya tilted her head. “Oh, I would’ve been fine,” she said airily. “Besides, I had a feeling it was you since you’re going back to avoiding me now.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and did the only acceptable thing. I lied through my fucking teeth. “I’m not avoiding you.” The wry arch of her eyebrow told me exactly how much she believed that. So I did the next best thing. I changed the subject. “And you facing off with a criminal by yourself doesn’t really endear me to your father, does it?”

Anya got this glint in her eye, and hells bells, it did things to me. I’d just waved the challenge flag in front of her. Red flag? Meet bull. I should’ve kept my stupid mouth shut.

She straightened, walking around from the side of the island that kept her bare legs covered, and my throat worked on a swallow when I realized she wasn’t wearing anything beneath that T-shirt. It was too dark to see what was on it because her arms were crossed too, and I was doing my damnedest not to ogle her chest or legs or … anything.

“Try to grab me,” she said.

My eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”

Anya lifted her chin. “Try to grab me. One hand. Two hands. Doesn’t matter.”

“Absolutely not.” My eyes briefly darted down to skin. All that bare skin on her legs. “You’re … you’re hardly wearing any clothes.”

Anya rolled her eyes. “Fine. If you’re afraid, you can just say it.”

I scoffed. “I’m not afraid. I’m like four inches taller than you and probably have a hundred pounds of muscle on you.”

“My dad had us in jujitsu by the time we turned ten,” she stated. “Trust me when I say that doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does.”

She tilted her head. “I’ll make you come to a class with me someday, then. It wouldn’t matter if I were half your size, which I’m not. Since you don’t know what you’re doing, I could pin you faster than you can lie about making cinnamon rolls for breakfast.”

“They’re just the cheap tube kind,” I lied. “Don’t get weirded out.”

Again, she raised an eyebrow. “They don’t smell like the cheap tube kind.”

My mouth flattened into a grim line right as the timer went off on the oven. I rolled my eyes before I snatched the mitts off the counter and pulled open the oven. The color was perfect, and it wasn’t the heat of the oven that had my face feeling hot when I removed the pan and set it on top of the trivets next to the stove.

“Holy shit, those smell amazing,” Anya groaned, coming in next to me so she could lean closer. Her shoulder brushed my bare arm, and I worked very hard not to move any closer. “What a liar you are,” she said lightly. “Isabel makes the cheap tube kind because she can’t bake for shit, andthatis not them.”

With a huff, I walked away. “What’s your point?”

“You made cinnamon rolls from scratch?”

I yanked open the drawer and shoved the oven mitts inside. “So.”

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