Page 16 of Mr. Dangerous

7

Naomi

Iwas butteringtoast in the kitchen when Rob walked in the nextmorning.

He stopped in the doorway, running a hand through sweaty dark hair. “You’re making mebreakfast?”

He was shirtless, wearing sweatpants low enough on his hips to expose hard hip bones below chiseled abs. Beads of sweat stood out along his glistening pecs and rock-hard biceps. I might have glimpsed a dark-haired happy trail beginning below his navel before I forced myself to look away through the French doors. I glanced out at the deep blue Atlantic waves. But damn it, Rob was thebetterview.

“I’m making your grandmother breakfast. Even though it’s not in my jobdescription.”

He pulled out a stool at the breakfast bar, settling close enough to me that I could have sworn I felt the heat coming offhisbody.

I stared down at the toast like it was the world’s most fascinating grain product. “Just finished yourworkout?”

“Yeah, there’s a weights room in the basement. Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you here soearly.”

“Or you would’ve put on a t-shirt?”

“Maybe.” The tiniest hint of a grin played around his lips as if he knew what effect his body hadonme.

“You should go shower,” I said primly. “You’re sweating all over thekitchen.”

“Sorry.” He didn’t seemsorry.

My phone began to warble, and I shoved his grandmother’s breakfast tray across the island. “Would you bring that uptoher?”

He nodded. “I better put on a shirtfirst.”

“That might be ideal,” I said. Even if it wasn’tmyideal.

Rob lingered in the doorway, though, probably dripping beads of sweat on his grandmother’s whole wheat toast, as I answered my phone. I tried to shoo him away. It was someone calling because they were pretty sure a cat was trapped in their neighbor’s abandonedtownhouse.

As I hung up, he ducked out of the room. By the time I’d packed up my stuff, he came sauntering back in, pulling a polo over his head. While he was blinded by the fabric, I took one long look at his tanned abs and chest, studying the way his hip bones indented from his muscular abs, like they were made for my fingers to wrap around his hips while he poundedintome.

When his dark hair popped out of the collar, I slung my bag over myshoulder.

“What’s going on?” He yanked the hem down, and now there was no more temptation to follow his happy trail down those angular lower abs in my imagination. His shirt clung tightly over his pecs and then hung loosely over that leanwaist.

“I have a cat torescue.”

For a second, our eyes met. Then I lunged for the keys, just as he swiped the keys to the Suburban from the bowl at the edge of thecounter.

“You know me,” he said. “I don’t like to bebored.”

“I’m pretty sure everything aboutrescuing catsis boringforyou.”

“Well, you’d be wrong.” His tone impliedasusual.

I shrugged. “Suit yourself,sailor.”

He led the way to the garage. His ass filled out his jeans way too perfectly, and I rolled my eyes at myself and at him. What the hell were wedoinghere?

Why couldn’tIstop?

As we drove over to the other side of Newport, Rob asked me, “How are we going to get into thehouse?”

“I have my ways,” Ipromised.

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