Page 52 of Shifting Sands

He chuckles low in his chest. “It’s not that impressive.”

“I don’t need impressive,” I say with a shrug. “I just need four walls and a place to sit. Unless you live in a cave. Do you live in a cave, Brew?”

He laughs again, rubbing the back of his neck. “No cave. Just … it’s kind of a mess right now.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Messy how?”

“Messy like … a tornado hit it. I haven’t really had time to clean lately. Between work and the bar and the garage—it’s not exactly ready for company.”

“Are you hiding dead bodies in your basement?” I tease, echoing Erin’s earlier joke.

“Just two,” he deadpans.

I narrow my eyes.

He grins. “I promise, they deserved it.”

I don’t laugh, but I don’t push.

Even though part of me wants to. Because I am curious. And maybe a little suspicious.

Still, I let it go. Something about the way he said it—hushed and careful—made me feel like prying would be the wrong move. He’s not hiding a lot, but he is keeping something close to the vest. That’s fine because this is just a casual thing. He doesn’t owe me anything more.

“Well, I’ll just assume it’s a disaster zone until proven otherwise,” I say lightly. “You’ve been warned—I judge people by their decor choices.”

“You’ll be sorely disappointed,” he says. “No throw pillows. No curtains. Just a couch, a bed, and a coffee machine.”

“Sounds like your standard-model bachelor pad.”

“More like bachelor chaos.”

He starts gently rubbing my scalp, and I nearly melt right into his lap.

“You’re dangerously good at that,” I praise.

“I have many hidden talents,” he murmurs as his hand moves to my shoulder, deliciously kneading my muscles.

“Careful,” I say, eyes fluttering closed. “I might keep you around just for this.”

“I like this,” he says softly. “Just … being here. With you.”

I nod, my voice caught somewhere in my chest as I glance up at him. “Me too.”

He leans down and presses his lips to mine.

It’s not rushed. Not needy.

It’s a kiss that lingers.

His hand finds my waist, pulling me closer, and I shift until I’m half curled into him, fingers threading through the back of his hair.

His lips are warm and sweet, tasting like mint and maybe a hint of the wine we had earlier. And when he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against mine, I can feel his breath against my skin.

“What are you doing to me?” he whispers.

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Yes, you are.”

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