Page 58 of Make Me Yours
The sharp jawline.
The carved lines of his body.
The way his gaze tracks me, as if I’m something he wants to unwrap.
When did Steele becomethatguy?
His eyes search mine as he steps into the kitchen. “You ran out of the bedroom like your ass was on fire. You sure you’re good?”
Unable to continue staring at him, I spin back toward the stove. I need something—anything—to focus on besides the six-foot-three problem that just walked into the kitchen. He’s not even crowding my personal space and I feel knocked off balance.
“I’m fine,” I mutter, cracking an egg against the side of the pan a little too aggressively.
It splatters everywhere.
With shaking hands, I grab a spatula and try not to think about how I helped him shower last night or dried him off. Or how I watched water slide down every inch of that ridiculously sculpted body like it was the most fascinating thing I’d ever witnessed.
If I’m being honest, it just might have been.
God, I need help.
The professional kind.
I move around the kitchen like a hummingbird, grabbing things I don’t need and opening drawers I’m not even thinking about. I’m flustered and uncoordinated, and the worst part is, he’s not saying a damn thing.
Just watching.
Calm and still.
Like he knows the reason I’m unraveling and he’s willing to patiently wait me out.
He’s always been steady and loyal. The one person who’s never let me down.
What I need most right now is for him to stay that way. Especially when everything around me has imploded.
My job.
My living situation.
My entire future is now riddled with uncertainty.
And my parents have never been the supportive type.
But Steele?
He’s always been my anchor. I’m afraid of what will happen if we rock the boat and venture into something more. Especially if it doesn’t work out.
Would I lose him too?
I don’t think I could deal with that.
I’m jerked from the turmoil of my thoughts when his hand brushes across mine.
“Let me help,” he says, voice low and easy, like we’re not standing on the edge of something that might break us wide open. “You’re going to massacre those eggs.”
“No, I’m not,” I lie.
He arches a brow. “Lilah. That egg has already died twice.”
