Page 25 of Not That Complicated

“Hi.”

“Hello.”

“If this is a prank call you need to work on your material,” I snapped.

“It’s not a prank call, Ray.”

Adam. My stomach tightened in visceral recognition at the sound of my name in his deep voice. “Adam?”

Someone rang my doorbell.

I scrambled up onto my knees. “Is that you?”

He laughed. “Yes, it’s me. I’m on your doorstep. Come down here and let me in.”

I was already halfway down the stairs.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“What are you even doinghere?” I said into the phone as I went to open the door. I gave it a tug, but of course it was locked. “Hang on.” I hung up, snagged my house keys, and unlocked the door. The deadbolt. The Yale lock. The second deadbolt.

“That’s a lot of locks,” Adam remarked, smiling down at me. “Hi.”

I didn’t know why I was happy to see him, considering I’d been calling him an arsehole not that long ago, but happy I was. “Hi.” I swallowed. He’d looked hot in his stupid uniform—in spite of his stupid uniform—but in his own clothes it was worse.

Ripped jeans, heavy boots, his leather jacket.

A motorcycle helmet dangled from his fingers.

“You have a bike,” I said. “Why am I not surprised?”

“It’s cheaper than a car.”

“It’s also more likely to kill you.”

“Nice of you to care. My bank balance doesn’t.” Adam nudged me gently backward, waited a split second to see if I was going to put up a fuss—and I might have, if he’d waited the actual whole second—and muscled inside.

He dropped his helmet on the hall table beneath the mirror, ran his hands through his bright hair with a critical look, and turned to me.

“Your hair is fine,” I said dryly.

He cocked his head then tilted it downward at an exaggerated angle. “Why are you so short?” he said.

“Because I’m barefoot and those boots give you at least another two inches? You may as well be wearing heels.” Two inches was an exaggeration, but they weren’t exactly ballet flats. They were closer to construction worker’s boots.

He snorted. Holding my gaze, he unzipped his boots and pulled them off. He set them alongside mine under the hall table. He stepped into me, stopping before our bodies touched. “Still short.”

“You’re a beanpole,” I said, holding out a hand for the jacket he shrugged off. I hung it on a spare coat hook. “Have you even stopped growing yet?” I headed for the kitchen.

“Yes, Ray, I am fully matured.” He followed me.

“Do you want coffee? No, it’s too late for coffee. I don’t have decaf. Hot chocolate?” I busied myself filling the kettle.

“Hot chocolate works,” he said.

I fussed around, taking down mugs and spooning in the hot chocolate while the kettle boiled, feeling his curious eyes tracking me all the while. “How do you have my number?”

“How do you think? I got it off your hotel booking.”

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