Page 7 of Ablaze

He opens the bag in his hands, seeming pleased. “That one percent is why people climb dangerous mountains, jump off cliffs, or hell, even fall in love. For the sheer chance that they might just make it. Most don’t live to tell the tale, but I suppose I’ll take this small risk.”

Interesting.

“You guys take bigger risks every day at work.”

He smiles, and I get the feeling he’s about to say something else when he changes course. “Do you want to come inside? I don’t mind warming a couple of these bad boys up and getting to know my best friend’s little sister over milk and cookies.” He winks and it causes a strange uptick in my heartbeat.

“Uh . . .” I look to my right again and jump. Dammit! Why do I keep looking in the direction of the human-sized spider? I am positive his beady little eyes are scanning me from head to toe. I swear, I saw him lick his lips hungrily, too. I shiver at the thought before turning back to Dean. “I don’t know–”

“Oh, come on. We started off on the wrong foot yesterday since you tried to turn me into a woman. It’s only fair we start over. Rohan’s one of my best buds, and now that you’re here, we’re bound to run into each other, so we might as well play nice.”

I eye the bag in his hands. “I’m pretty sure baking three dozen cookies for you was me playing nice.”

He raises a brow. “No. These were in exchange for my silence.”

I sigh, not missing his veiled threat. “Fine. Why the hell not?”

Dean moves out of the way as I step inside. “Who knows? We may even end up braiding each other’s hair.” He tugs on the end of my hair as if to make the point.

I roll my eyes. “Doubtful. And also, none of that is going to happen if you don’t get some clothes on.”

He smirks, leaning into my ear and a flurry of goosebumps rush over my skin. “Is my sculpted bod putting you on edge, sprinkles?”

I snort. “Don’t flatter yourself. The only thing putting me on edge is that hand towel wrapped around your torso. You might want to consider investing in something bigger.”

He wiggles his brows. “You’re lucky I’m even covering myself at all, considering I usually answer my door in the nude when I’m not expecting company.”

I smack his bicep with the back of my hand, questioning how I got so comfortable in the matter of moments with the guy. I get the feeling this–his easy flirtatious banter and that crooked smile–isn’t out of character for him. “Go put on some real clothes, Sparky.”

Dean chuckles and I follow him into his living room before he goes down the hall, disappearing into what I assume is his bedroom. I’m still smiling as I take in my surroundings, breathing in the scent of sandalwood and soap. It’s a scent that immediately relaxes me, given my nerves were all over the place just minutes ago when I knocked on his door.

Or maybe it’s not the scent at all, but the man who owns this home.

He’s refreshingly charismatic. In the little time I’ve known him, he’s managed to make me laugh more than I have in a long time. The guy seems to have a way of making people feel comfortable around him, as if they’ve known him forever. I can’t imagine even the most uptight person staying wound up around him for too long.

I swivel my gaze around his space. Though it’s sparsely decorated–with modern gray and white furniture and a few tasteful paintings on the walls–his home is astoundingly bright and airy, with natural light flooding the space through every uncovered window.

I walk over to the console table behind the sofa, picking up a picture frame of Dean with two other men–boys, really. The picture seems to have been taken when they were teenagers, but I can immediately spot Dean based on his longer hair and the ever-present mischievous smirk. The boy standing next to him looks quite like him, with the same blond hair–though shorter–and almost the same shade of blue eyes. They both seem to be teasing the third, younger boy in front of them, with Dean ruffling his dark hair and the other laughing.

Everything about the picture warms me from the inside out–from their thin bare chests, to their colorful swimming trunks, to the affection flowing in their eyes for each other.

“Those are my brothers, Garrett and Darian.”

I look up to find Dean now dressed in low-hung jeans and a flannel shirt. He’s already a good foot taller than me–maybe more–but he looks even more imposing with the way his waist is tapered and how his jeans outline his long legs. His hair is in a semi-neat half-bun at the top of his head, but a strand is still tucked behind his ear. With it off his face, the focus is stolen by his sharp azure eyes and the scruff outlining his defined jaw.

My gaze snags on his bare and corded forearm, flexing under his rolled-up sleeve as he reaches for the frame next to the one I have in my hand. It has me momentarily forgetting why I’m standing here in the first place.

“And this is the three of us in Vegas last year with your brother.” He tilts the frame, and I notice the now much older versions of the three boys in the picture, along with my brother. “We decided we’d try to make it a yearly thing if we could.”

“I didn’t realize Rohan knew your brothers, too.”

Dean puts the frame back down. “This was from their first meeting, actually. They loved him.”

I smile, knowing he’s likely not exaggerating. My brother has a tendency to be the life of the party–something he and Dean seem to share–and can easily have people hanging on his every word. And, unlike me, Rohan has found ways to make peace with our past. Sure, he’s more protective of me, probably because of what happened, but he’s found a way to let go. Unfortunately, letting go isn’t even an option for me. Probably because I lived it, saw it . . . felt it.

How does one let go of a past that stares back at them every day in the mirror? That’s not only left its mark on my heart and mind, but on my body as well?

I follow Dean into his kitchen, where I set my purse down on the bar and take a seat.

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