Maybe using her to fill the quiet between roles? The pause between flights? A way not to be alone at Christmas — the great JK Kenzie, trading red carpets for quiet dinners, headlines for anonymity, and her for a little company to soften the edges of solitude.
And she … she was foolish enough to want to believe it meant more. Foolish enough to imagine that beneath the charm and confidence was a man who actually saw her — not as a passing distraction, but as someone worth spending time with.
She gathered the damp bundle and stepped out of the bathroom. The sound of soft clattering drew her toward the kitchen, where the faint aroma of garlic, butter, and scalded milk hung in the air.
And there he was.
Before the stove, brow furrowed in concentration as he stirred a pot. A dishrag hung from one shoulder, and steam curled around his head like a halo.
He looked … real. Handsome, yes — impossibly so — but grounded, comfortable in his own skin in a way that no red-carpet photo could ever capture.
Something tightened low in her stomach.
A bit flustered, she cleared her throat. “Do you have a plastic bag handy?” she asked. “And where’s my pashmina?”
He turned, a wooden spoon still in hand, smile slow and easy. “I’ve put the pashmina in water to rinse. Figured the sooner you got the saltwater out, the better.”
He set the spoon down and stepped closer. “Let me quickly add this, too.”
Before she could register what was happening, he plucked the scrunched-up items from her hands and disappeared through a doorway.
The casual domesticity of it — him cooking dinner, loading a washing machine like it was the most natural thing in the world — rattled her more than she cared to admit.
And then —oh. Oh no.
“Wait!” she called, hurrying after him.
Too late.
He turned just as she stepped into the laundry nook. The space was small — too small — and suddenly filled with the charged silence between them.
His gaze dropped, dark and unguarded, lingering a moment below her waist before rising again — slow, deliberate — until his eyes met hers. The heat there stole her breath, molten and wordless, searing straight through the fragile wall of composure she’d tried to hold.
“You’re not wearing panties,” he growled.
Her mouth went dry. “They were wet,” she blurted, mortified.
Brilliant, Suzette. You should’ve just suffered through the damp panties.
His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking in his cheek. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The steady hum of the washing machine filled the silence, the low rhythm of it somehow amplifying the pulse hammering in her ears.
Heat pooled low in her belly. She could feel it — the awareness shimmering between them, alive and dangerous.
Justin dragged in a slow breath, his gaze lingering a second too long before he wrenched it back to her face.
She folded her arms across her chest, more out of self-preservation than modesty. “I told you — they were wet.”
A hint of a smile pulled on his lips. “Didn’t say I was complaining.”
Her heart stuttered, the air suddenly too thick to breathe. “Justin—”
He shook his head, stepping back, the intensity in his eyes softening to something almost tender. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to.”
For a split second, disappointment rolled through her. She tried for a laugh, but it came out thin. “You’re impossible.”
“Probably,” he admitted. “But I make a decent fish chowder. You hungry?”
“Starving,” she said, her voice huskier than she meant it to be.
