Gus trots over, tail wagging. I give him a distracted pat, eyes still on Lachlan.
“Hi,” he says. “Er . . . washing machine? Gym?”
I fold my arms. “Do I have a load of dirty clothes with me? Am I in gym gear? No. I’m here to talk.”
“Oh. Right.” He steps back stiffly. “Best come in, then.”
I brush past him into the kitchen. He hovers by the counter, hands shoved in his pockets. Gus claims his blanket in the corner.
“Tea? Coffee?” Lachlan offers.
“I’m good.” I fix him with a look. “Talk to me, Lachlan.”
“About what?”
“About why you’re acting so weird around me! Are you avoiding me? I thought we were getting somewhere, and then suddenly it’s like we’ve taken a step back again.”
“I’ve no idea what you’re on about,” he mutters, but there’s no conviction in it.
“Oh, come on. I thought we were past this after yesterday after your apology on the beach. But today you can barely look at me, and last night in the garage you got all weird on me at the end.” I take a step closer. “What’s going on?”
He runs a hand through his dark hair, leaving it mussed. “Blair...”
“I’m looking after your son five days a week. I’m right next door. I’m here for another month. If this is going to work, I need to know what the deal is.”
The silence stretches. I can see the war playing out on his face—what he wants to say versus what he thinks he should.
“It’s not...” He stops, swallows. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Then what?”
His jaw tightens, working the words before he spits them out. Finally, quietly: “Last night. In the garage. What you were wearing... and those exercises you were doing...”
Heat floods my cheeks, but I don’t back down. “The glute bridges?”
He nods, not meeting my eyes. “Aye. They were... distracting.”
I fold my arms. “Please. Every morning I have to look at you in that uniform. Ever think about that?”
He scoffs, finally looking at me directly. “Aye, but you’re a beautiful woman. I’m?—”
“A handsome man,” I cut in.
The words hang in the air between us. Lachlan stares at me like I’ve just claimed the moon’s made of cheese, disbelief etched on every line of his face.
“Blair . . .”
“What?” I step closer, close enough to catch the clean, masculine scent of his soap. My pulse skips. “You don’t think you’re attractive? Because newsflash, Captain Munro—you are.”
Something flickers in those green eyes, surprise melting into something darker. Hotter. Dangerous.
The world narrows to this: me stepping closer, tilting my face up toward him. His breathing’s shallow, his pulse thudding at the base of his throat.
“Don’t,” he rasps, voice rough with strain.
I pause, lips inches from his. “Why not?”
“Because if I start, I won’t be able to stop.”
