His smile is worth whatever hell I'm about to put myself through.
Chapter 7
Toby
I don't know why I asked him to stay.
My hands shake as I fill the kettle, water splashing against the sides because I can't hold it steady. Knox is standing in my kitchen, taking up all the space, all the air, and I can't breathe properly. Every inhale catches in my throat. Every exhale comes out shaky.
He's just there. Leaning against my counter like he belongs here, arms crossed over that massive chest, watching me fumble with basic tasks like I've never made coffee before in my life.
"Robin's brownies are in that container," I babble, pointing vaguely toward the counter. "The ones with the green lid. Not the blue—that's his experiment with savory breakfast muffins and they're terrible. I don't know why he keeps them. Probably hoping someone will eat them out of politeness. Don't be polite. They have bacon in them."
"Toby."
"I warned him that bacon doesn't belong in muffins but did he listen? No. He never listens. Creative genius, he says. More like creative disaster. Last month he tried to put lavender in scrambled eggs and I had to—"
"Toby."
Knox is suddenly behind me.
Not touching—there's still an inch of space between us—but close enough that I feel his heat radiating through my cardigan, through my shirt, into my skin. The kettle clatters against the sink as my hands jerk.
"You're nervous," he says. His voice is low, right next to my ear, and I can feel his breath against my neck.
"I'm not—" I turn and that's a mistake because he's right there, so close I could count his eyelashes if my brain was functioning. He's got one hand braced on the counter on either side of me, caging me in without actually touching. "I'm not nervous."
"Your heart's racing."
Right. Super senses. Lions have super senses. He can probably hear the blood pounding in my ears, the way my pulse is jackrabbiting against my throat.
"That's just... caffeine. From earlier."
"You haven't had coffee since this morning."
"How could you possibly know that?"
"Can't smell it on you." He leans closer, and I hear him inhale, slow and deliberate, nose brushing against my temple. "Ink. Paper. That vanilla hand lotion you use. Robin's shampoo from when he hugged you earlier." Another inhale, this one deeper, his nose trailing down to my neck. "Something sweet underneath, something that's just you. But no coffee."
"That's—" My voice cracks. I have to swallow twice before I can continue. "That's very specific."
"I pay attention."
To me? Why would he pay attention tome? I'm nobody special. Just a librarian who stumbled into his bar and couldn't even manage to call an uber without help. Just some guy in a cat cardigan who fell asleep at his table and drooled on his booth and—
"You're overthinking," he says.
"I'm always overthinking. It's what I do. Think. Overthink. Read too much into things that don't mean anything. Make up scenarios in my head where—"
He kisses me.
It's nothing like I expected. Nothing like the few careful, polite kisses I've had in my life—guys who treated me like Imight break, who kissed me like they were checking a box before moving on to someone more interesting.
Knox kisses like he's claiming territory.
One hand comes up to cup my jaw, tilting my head exactly where he wants it. The other stays braced on the counter, keeping me caged, keeping me his. His mouth is hot and demanding and so sure, like he's done this a thousand times, like he knows exactly what he's doing.
I don't know what I'm doing. I never know what I'm doing. But my body doesn't seem to care—my lips part for him without conscious thought, and when his tongue slides against mine, I make a sound I've never made before.
