Page 61 of Through the Flames
The front door opened before I could even set down my stuff to knock.
Had he been waiting? Watching?
I gave him a quick once-over, trying to school my features, but there was undoubtedly a flush creeping into my cheeks.
Jesus fucking Christ. If he walked around looking like this all the time, I was in huge trouble.
Hunter was barefoot, gray joggers riding low on his hips, and a white fitted tee hugging his massive torso.
His dark blond hair was slightly damp, like he’d just showered.
Fuck me. Literally, please do.
As always, his face was unreadable. “You’re late.”
There was zero indication in his voice of how he was feeling about the situation. Was it an observation? A reprimand? A reminder?
Spin the wheel, I guess, because I had no fucking clue.
“Nice to see you too, roomie,” I quipped before attempting to scoot past him, a sarcastic smile stretching my lips to hide the nerves swirling in my stomach.
Wordlessly, he snatched the main share of the load I was carrying out of my arms and carried it into the house.Hot. I could get behind a man who took charge.
I followed him inside. The floors were gleaming, and my boots squeaked on the smooth hardwood. The scent of clean laundry and lavender lingered in the air.
What a coincidence.
Never judge a book by its cover. Men were allowed to have fucking scented candles as well.
In fact, I’d much rather have them own half a Bath & Body Works than endure the smell of dirty socks. Or worse, their gear.
The memory of the stench of Dom’s gear drifting through our childhood home made me shudder. I took in the space, my eyes flicking from left to right.
It looked just like every other time I’d been here — as if nobody actually lived here.
The thermostat was the top priority, no question about it. It might even prompt Hunter to take off some of his clothes. I wouldn’t complain.
I was already thinking about little ways I could make this house feel like home. Maybe a few changes here and there, if Hunter would let me.
A loud bang snapped me out of my thoughts as Dom trampled into the living room with the grace of a hungover moose in flip-flops.
“Okay, Serial Killer Chic. Love the vibe. You know, I still have no idea how he actually affords this place,” he grunted, the boxes he had stacked in his arms obstructing his view of Hunter still standing at the bottom of the stairs.
He turned his head to give my brother a look, suggesting he was clearly less than impressed and mildly irritated by his presence.
“Wasn’t aware that’s any of your business, bro.”
Dom startled, almost losing his grip on the cardboard. “Jesus Christ, why do you never make any sounds? It’s creepy, dude. I told you to stop doing that!”
“Yeah, not going to happen. You can leave the boxes at the door. I’ll take care of them.”
Why was my stomach fluttering? He was talking about taking care of the boxes, for fuck’s sake, not anything else.
Dom lowered the boxes and gave him a lazy grin. “We should really work on your hospitality skills.”
“Pass.”
“You sure you want to carry all her shit? I mean, she’s my sister—”
