Page 65

Great.

Two whole hours of him standing in my kitchen, shirtless, looking way too at ease in my space. I pour myself a cup of coffee, deliberately keeping my back to him.

I need space. Distance. Something to get my head back on straight. But then I feel it. The slow, deliberate press of his presence behind me.

Not touching. Not crowding.

Just there.

And the worst part? I like it.

His voice drops lower. Rougher. “You always run this hard after a good night, Flight?”

I grip my mug tighter. “I’m not running.”

He chuckles, low and knowing. “Yeah? Then why won’t you look at me?”

Damn him. I turn. And immediately regret it. Because he’s too damn close.

Bare chest on full display. Dark pants slung low on his hips. A look in his eyes that tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

I swallow.

And Grant?

He sees it.

His smirk deepens, and I know—he’s winning this round.

I set my mug down and tilt my chin. “You sure you don’t have somewhere else to be?”

He lifts his own mug, takes a slow sip.

“Nope.”

I glare as I take a long drink from my mug.

Because he’s making a point. He’s not leaving. And suddenly, I have a very bad feeling I’m about to lose control of this whole damn situation.

I need out.

Out of this apartment.

Out of his orbit.

Out of the pull that’s making it impossible to think straight.

Because if I don’t leave now?

I won’t.

I step away from the kitchen counter, setting my coffee down with way too much force.

“I have plans.”

Grant lifts a brow. Unbothered. “That so?”

“Yes.”