Page 8 of Uxpectedly Ever After

Rising from my chair, I realize just how cramped this kitchen is. If I stepped forward, I could box her in against the counter. Press closer, see if that sharp tongue of hers tastes like I’ve imagined.

“Thanks for the food, Clover.” I force myself to give her space, even though I’d rather push her to see what she does. “And for letting me crash here. I know Kasen left you with no choice.”

She doesn’t turn around, but her posture relaxes the tiniest fraction. “You’re welcome. Just follow the rules and we’ll be fine.”

Right. Follow the rules. If there’s one thing I love, it’s pushing boundaries. She doesn’t need to know that yet, though. I’ll let her find out the fun way.

I shut the bathroom door behind me with a soft click, duffel in hand. The place is immaculate, just like the rest of Clover’s apartment, but it’s got that unmistakably girly vibe—pale blue shower curtain, rows of little bottles without labels lining the counter, and a clean, fresh scent that’s way too nice for a guy covered in two days’ worth of smoke and sweat.

There’s even a plant living on the windowsill.

It’s a hell of a contrast to the station’s locker room, that’s for sure.

Catching my reflection in the mirror, I almost groan. No wonder she said I looked like hell. My eyes are bloodshot, streaks of soot cling stubbornly to my skin, and my hair’s doing that stand-up-in-all-directions thing. The shadows under my eyes are so big they could get their own zip code.

I yank off my T-shirt and crank on the shower, waiting for the water to heat. My body aches in that twisted, satisfying way onlya brutal fire can leave you with—like I got run over by a truck but somehow survived. It could’ve been so much worse today.

As steam fills the small bathroom, I strip the rest of the way and step under the spray. The hot water hits my shoulders, and I can’t hold back a groan. Feels like heaven on sore muscles. I reach for one of her bottles—something that smells like citrus and vanilla—and try hard not to think about how this same soap glides over Clover’s skin.

And fail. Miserably.

My brain conjures up this crystal-clear image of her in here, the water streaming over those full tits, that gorgeous black hair clinging to her neck, freckles everywhere, lips parted and head tipped back as she rinses soap from every inch of her body. Her hands sliding lower, exploring places I’d give anything to touch—

Fuck.

I twist the knob to cold so fast I curse, hissing as ice-cold water pelts my overheated skin. This is exactly the shit I can’t be thinking about. Not when I’m bunking in her apartment. Not when I’ve spent years swearing to Kasen I won’t look at his baby sister that way.

“Liar,” I mutter, letting the frigid water nuke my libido.

Because the truth is, I’ve wanted Clover James since I saw her at seventeen, rolling her eyes at Kasen across some crowded house party like she owned the damn place. She was whip-smart, sharp-tongued, and so beautiful it physically hurt to lay eyes on her.

But I made a promise to my best friend. And Banks Priestly doesn’t break promises—not to the people who matter.

Which is why the next three months are gonna be the sweetest kind of hell. Living under the same roof, sleeping in a room just one wall over from hers, watching her stroll around in tiny shorts, hair loose, guard down. Eating the food shecooks, catching whiffs of the scent that now clings to my skin everywhere I go.

I lean my forehead against the cool tile and let the water wash away the last of the grime, even if it does nothing for the heat still pulsing through me. Cold shower or not, I know one thing for sure:

I’m so completely, utterly fucked.

It’s amazing how fast "short term" can turn into “feels like goddamn forever.”

One week. Just seven measly days. That’s all it’s been since Banks freaking Priestly and his perfect face and firefighter muscles invaded my existence, and already my beloved routine has been tossed into a dumpster and set on fire.

Exhibit A: It's 5:41 AM—an ungodly hour where only bakers and serial killers are awake–—and I'm standing frozen in my kitchen doorway, staring like a dumbass at a half-naked man making coffee inmykitchen when I should be blissfully unconscious.

"Morning, Freckles," Banks says without even turning around, like he’s got some creepy sixth sense that alerts him to my presence. His back is to me, all broad shoulders and sculpted muscle that tapers down to a narrow waist. I can’t see them right now, but there are abs.Abs.In real life. There’s even one of those V things that are pretty much crack to every woman with a pulse.

And my pulse this morning just so happens to be between my thighs.

Oh, and as if this man wasn’t hot enough, the early morning sunlight streaming through the window catches on a scar that runs along his left shoulder blade. The imperfection of it breaking up the miles of inked skin and muscles just makes him better somehow.

My brain immediately starts firing off a million questions about that scar. Questions that will remain forever unanswered, thank you very much.

"Don't call me that," I mutter, the response mostly involuntary by now. I force my sleep-fogged eyes away from the mouthwatering expanse of tattooed skin and focus on the absolute betrayal happening on my countertop. "Is that… Are you reorganizing my spice rack right now?"

Ugh. I can already feel that familiar twitch starting up in my left eye. This is going to be a long three months.

He glances over his chiseled shoulder, his lips quirking up at one corner in that charming half-smile that he totally knows is hot. "The way you had it was a mess. This way, everything you need for, say, Mexican night is all together. Makes way more sense."

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