Excuse the fuck out of me?
I don’t look at him when I mutter, “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” His voice is lighter, teasing, but his eyes are steady.
“Psychoanalyze me in my own apartment.”
“I’m just saying.” He shrugs, but his shoulders are tight. “It makes sense.”
I finally turn, arms crossed over my chest. His eyes are locked on mine, the usual goofy smirk softened into something quieter, almost careful.
“You don’t know me,” I bite out.
“I’m trying to.”
“Why?”
“Maybe I always wanted to.”
The living room suddenly feels much smaller. I look at him—barefoot now (when did that happen?), golden hair falling in messy strands over his forehead. He’s standing in the middle of my messy, cozy, real life, and instead of seeming out of place, he fits in too perfectly.
“You’re not sleeping in my bed,” I quietly say, needing to break the moment before it consumes me.
“I figured.” His voice is easy, but his gaze doesn’t waver.
“There’s the couch.”
“You’re going to make your husband sleep on the couch?”
“Maverick.”
“I’m delicate, babe.”
I roll my eyes so hard it aches.
He smirks, reaches out, and straightens a pencil on my desk that was slightly off from the others.
My jaw drops. “What is wrong with you?”
He rocks back and forth on his heels, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to scrub the nerves out. “I’m a little bit of a clean freak.”
“A little?”
“Okay.” He exhales, shoulders slumping. “A lot.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, squeezing until I see stars. My sigh escapes long and frayed, but a corner of my mouth betrays me, twitching upward.
“Interesting.”
Little Tokyo is filledwith rich scents sifting through the air: soy sauce, grilled yakitori, fried panko, and roasted sesame oil wafting from narrow kitchen vents. Sweet red bean paste emanates from the mochi stand on the corner.
Everything seems vibrant and lively, almost a bit overwhelming. Neon signs glow above in pinks and greens, with kanji softly reflecting off the glass.
Maverick walks beside me with too much ease, a soft grin tugging at his mouth every time he catches me looking at him. He’s in a plain white tee, his ball cap pulled low.
Not that it helps.
He’s six-eight, broad as hell, and built like a quarterback.
