Page 14 of Tied Up In Tinsel
The second I stepped toward the kitchen, though, something was… different. The usual cozy scent of cinnamon and spice that clung to the house had been replaced by something richer, darker, more tempting.
Coffee. Freshly brewed coffee.
That stopped me in my tracks. I was always the one to brew the coffee, and I definitely hadn’t done it last night—unless I’d reached a new level of autopilot I didn’t know about.
Following the aroma, I rounded the corner into the kitchen. And froze.
Brooks was there.
Shirtless.
Broad shoulders, toned chest, tattoos sprawling across every inch of tanned skin. Plaid pajama pants hung low on his hips like they were barely clinging to the job of staying up. He leaned casually against my counter, one hand wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, the other braced on the edge like he belonged here.
Lord. Have. Mercy.
I’d noticed he was good-looking when I met him—twice, fully clothed. But this? This was an entirely different level of temptation. His tattoos disappeared beneath his waistband, and my brain immediately decided it wanted to know exactly where they ended.
What the hell had I been thinking, bringing a six-foot-something, fully tattooed smokeshow into my house?
My libido was already drafting its resignation letter.
I swallowed hard, trying to drag my gaze back up from his very distracting torso. His eyes—whiskey-colored and entirely too observant—were locked on me. And unlike him, I wasn’t exactly serving Greek-goddess energy. My hair looked like it had been in a wrestling match with my pillow. There was probably drool on my chin. I hadn’t even glanced in a mirror.
Meanwhile, Brooks looked like he’d stepped out of some glossy holiday calendar where the lumberjack takes off his flannel in front of a roaring fire.
“Morning,” he said, a slow, knowing smirk tugging at his mouth.
I gave a stiff nod, pretending like my pulse wasn’t doing sprints. “So… you’re an early riser too,” I managed. Not a “good morning,” not a “how’d you sleep.” My brain was too busy protesting the fact that I hadn’t had a chance to mentally armor myself before walking in on…this.
Finding out Brooks was the same man I’d flirted with at the bar the other night—the one I’d secretly wanted to climb like a tree—hadn’t been on my holiday bingo card. Seeing him at my front door the next day had been… complicated.
At first, panic.
Then… desire.
For a split second, I’d thought he’d tracked me down to finish what we’d started at the bar. Then he dropped the bomb that he was the person I’d been emailing for the nanny position.
Now here he was, in my kitchen, shirtless and tattooed and making coffee like he owned the place.
Professional and platonic. That was what it should be. That was the smart choice.
But standing there in plaid pajama pants and giving me that damn smirk? Yeah, my ovaries were writing their own set of rules.
“Always,” he replied, voice low and certain. “Early mornings are my favorite time of the day.”
“Me too,” I murmured, though mine were usually filled with coffee and silence rather than conversations with men who looked like they’d stepped straight out of my most dangerous daydreams.
I opened the fridge and grabbed my favorite creamer, the vanilla-bean one Ruby said made the whole house smell like sugar cookies. Brooks was already reaching for a mug, then he held it out toward me.
When I took it from him, my fingers brushed his. The contact was brief—barely a second—but it was enough. A jolt of electricity shot through me, sharp and unrelenting, rushing up my arm and pooling low in my stomach before settling in a place that made my knees feel a little unreliable.
“Thanks,” I said softly, my voice catching in the middle.
His gaze lingered on me a beat too long. “So, will you be home in time for dinner?”
I nodded, clutching the mug like it was the only thing keeping me steady. “Should be, as long as everything goes to plan.”
Leaning back against the island, I put a safe foot or so of distance between us. I lifted the mug to my lips and blew across the surface, watching steam curl away.
