Page 56 of The Best of Us

The espresso machine hummed softly, and his hands were planted on the counter in front of it, and his triceps were flexed tight in that position.

The farther I walked into the kitchen, the more I noticed his back had a few scars marking his flesh as well.You poor guy, what happened to you?

“You’re supposed to be in bed,” he murmured, detecting I was behind him.

“So are you.” I perched my hip against the counter and rested my hand on the grayish-looking marble. “Can’t sleep?”

“That a question for me or a statement from you?” He lifted his head and slowly faced me.

“Both?” I smiled at the fact I’d responded with yet another questioning tone, and my insides burst into an explosion of excitement the moment he returned my smile.

“No rest for the wicked.” He lifted his brows.

“Question or an answer?” I smirked.

“Both,” he tossed out, his smile meeting his eyes that time.

I couldn’t help but take a moment to appreciate the man before me. To soak in the sight of such a gorgeous creation by God. Six-pack of perfection, but not in an overdone way. Arms and shoulders that made me want to cry (in a good way).

I visually tracked one vein that ran down his right arm to his strong hand, now planted on the counter next to him the way I’d done. Those hands had once covered every inch of my body, and it was hard not to remember that. To remember everything about that night in Aruba.

I gave myself another moment to check out my son’s father, from the sexy V-lines visible above the waistband of his mesh-looking black workout shorts to his stellar calf muscles.You don’t skip leg day. Good for you.

“Juliette?”

“Mm?” My gaze took a slow and long journey back to his face, my body heating along the way.

His other hand was parked on his jawline. While studying me, he palmed the day-or-two-old scruff. “Would you like me to get a shirt? Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“No.”Not in a bad way, at least.“So, do you just not like shirts?”

“Not when I sleep or work out. I don’t like to be hot.”

“And what about when you make coffee?”

He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. “Is there another way to make coffee than this?” The tease in his words and tone was both unexpected and refreshing.

“I see I’ve been doing it wrong for years.”

He straightened his posture. “You just weren’t doing it with the right person.”

Chills dusted my skin, and he had to see the ridges on my forearms right along the scattering of freckles there.

His gaze wasn’t on my forearms, though. It was pointed at my very innocent top. As a shiver set in, it dawned on me he wasn’t reading the words on my shirt but rather zeroed in on the fact I was braless. “I forgot,” I whispered, my cheeks going flush from embarrassment as I whipped my arms up to cover my breasts.

He rasped, “You may not care if I have a shirt on, but I’ll for damn sure find it distracting if you’re not wearing a bra.” He looked away from me and up at the ceiling as if I were naked and he was trying to respect me. “Please.”

“Of course.” I nodded even though he wasn’t looking at me, then hurried around him, probably beet red as I went to my room.

I shut the door and set my back to it, trying to catch my breath. Our kitchen exchange had sent my pulse flying, and I was fairly certain the electricity between us may have been even more kinetic than it’d been in Aruba.

How was I supposed to behave around him when I could barely breathe in his presence?

I took a few minutes to pull myself together, to de-fever (was that a word?) my skin. Finally, I snapped on apaddedbra, brushed my fingers through my messy hair, and went out to face the only man in my whole life who’d ever made me feel like this.

He’d made the wise choice to put on a shirt in my absence. A gray tee to match the nearly all-gray living room.

“Hi.” I let the small word dangle between us, and the moment he turned around, I realized whatever tension had been between us before I’d left was still very much there. “Why don’t we take this chance to talk while he’s asleep?”

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