Caelan was standing at the industrial sink, sleeves still rolled to his elbows, broad back shifting under his sweater as he washed a glass. Water ran over his hands, big hands, capable hands, hands that could probably snap a man in half but were currently cradling a wine glass as if it was made of spun sugar. His forearms flexed with each movement. A tendon in his wrist caught the light. His shoulders were impossibly wide, taperingdown to a narrow waist, and even through the sweater I could see the definition of muscle.
My mouth went dry.
This was ridiculous. He was doing dishes. It was domestic, mundane. It wasnotsexy.
So why the hell did I find it so hot?
I needed professional help, the kind with degrees and certifications and the ability to explain why watching a man wash dishes made me feel like I was overheating.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said, and my voice came out slightly strangled.
“I know.” He didn’t turn around or startle, just kept washing, completely at ease, as if he’d known I was there. Huh. Did he hear me? “But watching you try to do it yourself would have been painful.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve been rearranging your bag for twenty minutes instead of cleaning.” Now he glanced over his shoulder, a hint of a smirk playing at his lips. “I decided to take pity on you.”
“I was organizing.”
“It’s fine,” he turned back to the sink. “I don’t mind doing the hard work.”
I gaped at his back. “The hard work? You’re washing glasses.”
“Precisely. Very difficult. Requires skill and dedication.”
Was he teasing me? He was teasing me. The intense, brooding Australian was making fun of me.
“You’re insufferable,” I said, moving further into the kitchen and setting my glasses on the counter near the sink.
“And yet here you are.” He shut off the water and turned to face me, giving me his full attention. Water droplets clung to his fingers. His sweater had a wet spot on the stomach where he’d leaned against the counter. He looked like a domestic fantasy come to life, and the smirk hadn’t left his face. “Seeking out my company.”
“I came tohelp.”
“Did you?” His gray eyes held mine, steady and knowing. “Or did you come to watch me work?”
My cheeks burned. “You’re very full of yourself.”
“I’m very observant.” He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, biceps straining against his sleeves. “There’s a difference.”
I studied him, the openness of his expression under the teasing, the way he stood there like he had nothing to hide.
But everyone had something to hide, Damien taught me that.
“What do you want?” I asked bluntly.
The smirk faded. Surprise flickered across his face. “What do you mean?”
“You show up at my signing. You crash my book club. You wash my dishes.” I crossed my arms over my chest, a barrier. “What’s your angle?”
He was quiet for a moment. Then he stepped toward me, not threatening, just closer, and his voice dropped lower. “I’m new in town. I don’t know anyone. And I thought maybe...” He paused, his gaze dropping to my mouth for just a second before snapping back up. “...you could be my friend.”
Friend.
The word hung between us, and my stomach did something complicated. I didn’t believe him, though I wanted to. So I decided to test this “friend” theory.
“Okay,” I said slowly. “Friends.”
His whole face lit up. The intensity softened into something almost boyish, like a golden retriever who just got told he was a good boy. I should not find this so attractive.
