Page 35 of Major Love

And then I’m walking backward into the kitchen so that I’m no longer blocking her entryway.

“It is sonotokay,” Sunday argues, looking flustered as she drops her carry-on beside Casey’s couch.

An overnight carry-on.

That she used, overnight.

I stare at it for a long moment before turning around and getting to work on my unzipped jacket.

I toss it to the floor and then get my fists around the hem of my shirt, ready to tug it over my head so that I don’t singe the skin off my entire abdomen.

I glance briefly over my shoulder, meeting Sunday’s eyes in a silent warning.

A warning that says,look, there’s no polite way of putting this, but I’m about to take my shirt off.

She blinks up at me with flushing cheeks before removing her cowgirl hat and demurely giving me her back.

I stare at it as she slips her own jacket off her shoulders, and then I’m ripping my shirt over my head, hands twitching as I take in her pyjamas.

Her shirt is long-sleeved and fitted, and her cotton shorts are baby blue.

They’re sweet as hell.

And some other guy saw her wearing them last night.

That thought stings worse than the boiling coffee she just tossed up my abdomen.

I glance down at the soiled grey shirt and bring it to my nose, sniffing the fabric.

And then intrigue lifts my brow, my frown dissipating until I’m almost smiling.

“Hot chocolate?” I ask quietly, my voice deeper than I mean for it to be, but that can’t be helped when I’m getting naked and there’s a beautiful woman standing five feet in front of me.

A soft laugh tinkles out of her as she leans down and pulls off her snow-boots.

And my military brain can’t help but decipher that new piece of information.

She must have been travelling up near the mountains for her to need to wear snow-boots.

“It’s my go-to,” she admits. “It’s what I used to kick my caffeine addiction a couple years back.”

I grab my jacket and tug it back over my shoulders, pulling the zipper to the top so that I’m not giving Sunday a strip-show when she turns around.

I stuff the soiled shirt in my back pocket and breach the gap between us as she peeks over her shoulder.

“All decent,” I tell her gruffly.

She gives me a playful roll of her eyes, and then turns around to face me.

“Did you have a nice weekend?” she asks gently, and the space between us instantly heats with tension.

I roll my shoulders and spread my boots, my eyes flicking down to Sunday’s overnight bag.

“Sure,” I tell her, bringing my gaze back to her face. “And yours?”

She fights back a smile. “It was actually really nice.”

I almost laugh as I palm my nape.

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