Page 31 of The Contractor's Rose
I blinked. My brain short-circuited. “You’rewhat?”
He turned back toward the stove like it was no big deal, flipping the burner back on beneath the skillet of stir-fry I had completely forgotten about. The sizzle of reheating vegetables filled the room as if he hadn’t just completely devoured hisfirst coursefive feet away.
“Gavin,” I warned, but it came out more breathy than stern.
“Later,” he said, not even glancing over his shoulder. “You’ll thank me.”
And I believed him.
When he finally turned back to me, he wiped his hands on a dish towel, then held one hand out for mine. “Come on.”
I slid my fingers into his without hesitation, his grip firm as he led me out of the kitchen. We passed a closed door on the left, a small hallway bathroom, and what looked like a laundry room—clean and tidy, of course. I wanted to slow down, peek inside the room, smell his laundry soap or get a better look at the neatly folded stacks. But instead, I followed him.
At the end of the hallway, he opened a door and stepped aside to let me walk in first.
The room was … beautiful. Clean lines. A deep green accent wall. Crisp tan bedding that looked almost untouched. A warm wood dresser. Everything felt expensive but not showy, like something from a magazine spread or a model home. Perfect. A littletooperfect.
There were no framed photos. No clutter. No stray socks or discarded books. Nothing messy or lived-in. It didn’t screamGavin lives here.
Except for the faint, lingering scent of his cologne in the air. And the slight indent in the oversized armchair in thecorner, like he spent quiet nights reading or brooding there. Probably brooding.
I turned to say something about the room but he was already gone, disappearing into what I assumed was the closet. A few seconds later, he returned with a folded long sleeve shirt and a pair of boxers.
“Here.” He handed the small stack over to me. “The shirt should be fine. Bottoms might be a bust, but honestly, I’m kind of hoping they fall right off.”
I rolled my eyes, laughing but also internally agreeing with his hope. “You’re terrible.”
“I’m honest.”
I hugged the clothes to my chest, pressing them close. “Actually, my bag’s in the entryway. I can go grab it. I packed stuff …”
He shook his head slowly, one eyebrow arching in that way that made my insides twist. “Nope.”
“No?”
“No,” he said again, firmer this time. His voice was quiet but insistent. “I’d rather see you in my clothes.”
The way he said it—like a need, not a suggestion—knocked the air from my lungs.
I didn’t argue.
He nodded toward the bathroom connected to the bedroom. “Take your time.”
Inside, I flicked on the light and shut the door behind me, needing the brief solitude. The bathroom was as pristine as the rest of the house—dark tile, matching towels, a perfect blend of masculine and spa-like calm. No clutter on the counter. No trace of toothpaste caps or razors or damp hand towels.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and had topause. My cheeks were flushed, my hair slightly mussed. I looked … different. Like someone who’d had a spark of life breathed into them.
I pulled the shirt closer and brought it to my face, breathing in deeply. His scent hit me instantly: warm, woodsy, something clean and earthy andhim. It made my skin prickle and my stomach flip.
I peeled out of my dress slowly. I slipped the shirt on first, noticing the Miller’s Contracting logo on the front. It was too big, swallowing me whole, but I liked that. I liked being wrapped in something that smelled like him. It felt like being claimed in the gentlest, most possessive way.
Pulling on the boxer shorts, I rolled the waistband a couple of times until they stayed up, the fabric soft against my bare skin. They were too loose, hanging a little low on my hips, but I didn’t care.
Hewantedme in his clothes. And I wanted that, too.
When I stepped back into the bedroom, Gavin was leaning against the dresser with his arms folded across his chest. His eyes swept up slowly, like he was drinking me in. The look on his face made heat bloom in my chest all over again.
“Damn,” he groaned, letting out a low whistle. “You wear my company logo better than any guy on my crew.”
