He gets three bags on one arm, reaches for a fourth, and that's when he notices me.
His eyes go wide behind those glasses. The bag he's reaching for slips, and he catches it awkwardly against his chest, nearly dropping two others in the process.
"Knox?"
"Hey."
"What are you—is everything okay?" He's clutching the groceries like a shield, confusion written all over his face. "Are the tarts okay? Did Robin poison someone? Oh god, he didn't label something with nuts properly, did he? He's usually so careful but sometimes he forgets—"
"The tarts are fine."
"Then why are you—" He stops, seems to realize he's standing in a parking lot interrogating me while juggling groceries. "Sorry. Hi. I just—this is unexpected."
I swing off the bike, moving toward him. "Need help?"
"I—what?"
I don't wait for permission. I'm already taking bags from him, my fingers brushing his as I lift the weight off his arms. He makes a small sound—surprise, maybe, or relief—and lets me.
"Groceries," I say, like it needs explaining. "You have too many."
"Oh." He blinks at me, adjusting his grip on the remaining bags. "Okay. Thanks?"
He leads the way to the building, and I follow, carrying enough groceries for a small army. Vegetables, mostly. Some kind of fancy sauce. The good bread from that bakery on Fifth.
"Shopping for the week," he explains, unnecessary. "Robin does the fancy stuff—the baking, the complicated recipes—but I handle regular food. He'd live on croissants and experimental foam if I let him."
"Foam?"
"Culinary school thing. Don't ask." He's unlocking the building door now, holding it open with his hip so I can pass through. "We're on the third floor. Sorry, no elevator."
The stairwell is narrow, and Toby's scent fills it—that warm sweetness I can't get out of my head, mixed with something that must be the library. Paper and ink and old books. Every breath I take makes my lion rumble with satisfaction.
I follow him up the stairs, trying not to notice how his ass looks in those jeans. Failing completely. They're not the rain-soaked khakis from the other night—these actually fit, hugging his thighs, and I have to drag my eyes away before he catches me staring.
"So," he says, slightly breathless from the climb. "Do you make a habit of waiting in parking lots for people?"
"No."
"Just me, then?"
"Just you."
He glances back at me, something unreadable in his expression, then turns away before I can figure out what it means.
Third floor. He stops at a door marked 3C and fumbles for his keys.
"Robin?" he calls out as he unlocks it, pushing the door open. "I thought you'd be gone by—don't be naked!"
"Too late!" comes Robin's voice from inside.
We walk in to find Robin in the kitchen wearing nothing but a towel slung low on his hips, drinking directly from an orange juice carton. His hair is wet, skin still damp, and he lookslike he just stepped out of a magazine shoot—if the magazine was specifically designed to make me want to commit homicide.
"Robin! I thought you were going out with Tyler!"
"He pushed it to later. Something about a work thing." Robin sets down the orange juice and turns fully to face us. The towel shifts dangerously low. "I'm not naked, by the way. I'm wearing a towel. There's a difference."
His eyes land on me, and his face lights up with unholy glee.
