Page 31 of Bunker Down, Baby

“I do everything,” I say.

“Christ.” He laughs again. “You’re like a horny Martha Stewart with control issues.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Oh, it was.” He shifts, the blanket falling down a little as he moves. The ink on his forearms glints under the warm lights, and I absolutely do not lick my lips like a cartoon wolf.

“You going to kill me?” he asks lightly. Like he’s asking about the weather.

I grin. “God, no. You’re useful. You fix things. You’re hot. You’re already halfway in love with me.”

He tilts his head, considering. “You really believe that?”

“I know it, Dean.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then, slowly, he lays his head back against the pillow again, eyes flicking up toward the ceiling. “Well, damn,” he says with a sigh. “I guess I’m not fixing your generator today.”

I laugh. Loud and real and giddy.

Because this?

This is going to be so much fun.

“I’m not crazy, you know,” I say.

Dean gives me a look that says you absolutely are, but it’s softened by the fact that he’s chewing, mouth full of homemade pizza, nodding like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. It probably is. I used the good flour. The imported olive oil. I grated the cheese like I meant it.

“You’re just ahead of the curve,” he says after swallowing. “That it?”

“Yes,” I say, delighted. “Exactly.”

He smirks, leaning his head back against the pillow like he’s settling in for story time. His biceps stretch, the veins in his arms distracting the shit out of me. There’s a little grease under his nails. He smells like motor oil and heat and God’s favorite mistake. It’s all very compromising for my nervous system.

I take a breath.

“The flu’s getting worse,” I say, curling back into the armchair, folding my legs up under me. “Not the normal kind. The kind that kills you. Fast. And not in a cute, dramatic movie way. In a messy, ‘blood coughing in line at the grocery store’ way.”

Dean lifts a brow. “Charming.”

I nod. “I know. That’s why I stocked up.”

He watches me, amused but… listening. Really listening.

“I’ve got everything we need here. Food. Water. Power. Weapons, if it comes to that. But all that’s just stuff. I need people. People who can make it work.”

I look at him. Let my gaze run down his chest, the lazy sprawl of his legs, the rise and fall of his breath. “You fix things.”

“Sure do,” he says.

“You’re strong.”

“Getting stronger with every bite of this pizza, baby.”

“You’re loyal,” I add, like it’s a fact, not a guess.

He doesn’t argue. He just watches me for a second, that damnable glint in his hazel eyes. “And you think I’m already in love with you.”

“I know you are.”

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