Get it together, Bascombe. This is work.
I killed the engine and hopped out, pulling my coat tighter against the cold. The air had that bone-deep chill that came with late December in coastal New England, the kind that made your fingers ache even inside gloves.
I was halfway through unloading the first bin when the front door opened and Luke appeared, wearing a dark maroon sweater and jeans. My traitorous brain immediately catalogued how good he looked—how the color brought out the caramel flecks in his eyes, how the sweater fit snugly across his shoulders.
Luke Byron was not my type. Not even close.
At five-ten, I’d always gravitated toward tall, strapping men—guys who could make me feel small and delicate. Luke was maybe five-foot-seven in shoes, with a compact, athletic build that reminded me more of Tom Holland than, say, Chris Hemsworth.
Today, he wore wire-rimmed glasses instead of the tortoiseshell ones he’d had on during my initial walk-through of his house, and his mussed, dark blond hair looked like he’d been running his fingers through it all morning.
On paper? Not my type at all.
So why did my pulse kick every time I looked at him?
He’d been nothing but awkward around me, stammering, fleeing rooms, barely able to hold eye contact. But I’d read the articles about him, the ones that focused on his reputation as someone who was hyperfocused, who would dive so deep intoprojects that he’d forget to eat or sleep. The ones that recalled how his intensity in boardrooms had made venture capitalists uncomfortable.
I hadn’t metthatLuke Bryon yet, but I was beginning to think I really, really wanted to.
The thought alone made something low in my belly tighten.
It was the way he moved, maybe—efficient and precise, like every single gesture was intentional. Or the way his forearms looked when he pushed up his sleeves, revealing surprisingly defined muscles. Or how his sweater pulled across his chest and shoulders in a way that made it clear he was stronger than he looked.
God help me, I wanted to get my hands on him—to find out if that compact frame felt as solid as it looked, to know what would happen if all that intensity he supposedly possessed ever got focused on me.
I blinked hard, twice, and gave myself a mental shake, trying to reset my brain. This was ridiculous. I was a thirty-two-year-old woman, not a teenager with a crush. I could control my thoughts.
Except apparently I couldn’t, because I was still staring at the way his sweater stretched across his shoulders.
“Knock it off,” I muttered under my breath, forcing my eyes away.
“Hey,” he said, jogging toward me. “Let me help.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.” He reached for the bin in my hands. “But I want to.”
Our fingers brushed as he took it from me, and I definitely did not notice the warmth of his hands or the way his eyes met mine for just a second longer than necessary.
Nope. Not noticing any of that.
“Thanks,” I managed, my voice coming out slightly high and squeaky-sounding.
“Where do you want everything?” he asked, glancing back at me over his shoulder.
“The front parlor, if that’s not going to be in the way? That’s where most of the main arrangements will go on the day.”
He nodded and headed inside. I grabbed another bin and followed him, acutely aware that I was about to spend the next half hour alone with Luke Byron in his beautiful house.
Inside, the house was warm and toasty, and smelled like woodsmoke and cinnamon.
“Smells amazing in here,” I said, sniffing the air.
Luke set down his bin in the front parlor and turned to face me, a hint of pink creeping into his cheeks. “I made cookies. Well, Iattemptedto make cookies. The jury’s still out on whether they’re edible.”
“You bake?” I set my bin down next to his and straightened, brushing dust off my hands.
“I follow recipes and hope for the best.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Do you want one? Or coffee? Or?—”
