Page 53 of The Knotheads Next Door
The kitchen light flicks on, and I tense, already knowing who it is before I turn around. Her scent reaches me first—honey and milk, sweet and warm, with that undercurrent of something spicy that's uniquely Rowan.
"Can't sleep either?" she asks, hovering in the doorway. She's wearing sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt, her curls loose around her shoulders. She looks soft, rumpled, achingly beautiful.
I grunt noncommittally, turning back to the cabinet.
"I brought a peace offering," she continues, undeterred by my lack of response. She sets a mug on the counter beside me. "Coffee. Black, two sugars. That's how you take it, right?"
It is. The fact that she's noticed, remembered, shouldn't matter. But it does.
"Thanks," I say gruffly, not looking at her.
She doesn't leave. Instead, she leans against the counter, watching me work with those observant eyes of hers. "Need a hand?"
"It's late. You should be sleeping."
"So should you," she counters. "But here we are."
Here we are indeed. Alone in the kitchen at one in the morning, the rest of the house silent, the air between us charged with everything we're not saying.
I take a sip of the coffee, buying myself time to get my thoughts in order. It's perfect—strong and sweet, exactly how I like it.
"About earlier," she starts, and I tense all over again. "In the garage—"
"Nothing happened," I interrupt, harsher than I intended. "Let's leave it at that."
She flinches slightly, but her chin comes up with that stubborn tilt I've come to recognize.
"Fine. We'll pretend nothing happened. Can I still help, or is the silent treatment part of this arrangement?"
I should say no. Send her back upstairs, put as much distance between us as possible.
Instead, I hand her a screwdriver. "Hold the bracket in place while I attach it."
She takes it with a small, surprised smile that makes something in my chest twist uncomfortably. We work in silence after that, falling into the same easy rhythm we found in the garage. It's a simple task—installing LED strips under the cabinets—but having her there makes it go faster, smoother.
When she leans in to help position a strip, her shoulder brushes against mine, and I have to clench my jaw against the rush of awareness that follows. She smells incredible, especially this close. The blockers she uses are still there, but they're less effective now, barely containing the omega notes that grow stronger each day.
"Hold this," I instruct, passing her the end of the LED strip. Our fingers brush, and I pull back quickly, ignoring the static-like tingle that races up my arm.
She positions the strip carefully, stretching up on her toes to reach. The movement causes her shirt to ride up, revealing a sliver of pale skin at her lower back. I force my eyes away, focusing with unnecessary intensity on the wiring in my hands.
"Like this?" she asks, glancing over her shoulder at me.
I nod, not trusting my voice. She turns back to the task, and I allow myself one fleeting look at the graceful line of her neck, the soft curve of her cheek in profile, her beautiful skin.
This is torture. Self-inflicted, unnecessary torture.
We finish the first cabinet, and I step back to check the placement. "Looks good," I say, my voice rougher than usual. "Let's do the next one."
She follows me to the next section, and we repeat the process. Me holding the strip, her securing it with the mounting clips. But this time when she stretches up, she wobbles slightly, losing her balance. I reach out instinctively, catching her waist to steady her.
My hands burn where they touch her, even through the thin fabric of her shirt. She stills, not pulling away, and for a moment we're frozen like that—her back to my front, my hands on her waist, her warmth seeping into me.
And then she turns, slowly, still within the circle of my arms.
"Jasper," she says, my name barely more than a whisper on her lips.
She's so close. Close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, the light dusting of freckles across her nose, the deep pink of her lower lip that tells me she's been worrying it with her teeth when she's thinking. Close enough that her scent surrounds me, envelops me, clouding my judgment and weakening my resolve.
