“Yes.”
I freeze.I said yes?
Something shutters in his gaze before he steps back, giving me space to enter. I swallow hard and follow him up the stairs, nerves buzzing.
His apartment surprises me. It’s not the open, loft-style that catches me off guard from this man who runs a bar. It’s the intention across the space: clean lines, dark woods, a balance of modern and masculine touches. There’s no clutter.
Out of place, yet whollyhome,my eyes snag on a piece of furniture, a buffet cabinet tucked along one wall. Solid walnut, unmistakably 1930s. The lines are curved, the craftsmanship stunning. My breath catches as I move toward it without thinking.
I run my fingers along the edge, feeling the smoothness of the original finish, the age in the wood. “This is incredible,” I murmur. “You don’t see pieces like this often, especially not in this good of shape.”
Hex watches me, arms still crossed. “It belonged to my grandfather. My mom left it to me.”
I glance up. I don’t miss how he saysleft.
His eyes dart across the piece, jaw tightening as a quick shadow of conflict crosses his face before he masks it. “Shewanted to get rid of it, but she knew I liked it and would take care of it.”
I can’t help the chuckle I release, shaking my head. “You like old things.”
He lifts a brow. “That funny to you?”
I press my lips together, a teasing glint in my eye. “No. Not at all.”
That earns me a slow, considering look. One I feel in my stomach.
I clear my throat, running my fingers along the edge of the wood again. “I own Thorne Revival, the furniture restoration shop two streets over. If you ever want this piece completely restored, I’d be happy to help. It wouldn’t take much. Just some sanding, stain, and varnish.”
His gaze lingers.
“I know of that place,” he admits. “Haven’t been inside, but I’ve seen it in passing. I’m usually here in the evenings, so I only catch it when everything’s closed.”
I nod, a quiet understanding settles between us.
Or maybe something else.
Something I’m definitely not ready to name.
Hex moves toward the kitchen area, and my eyes instinctively follow.
It’s stupidly nice. The kitchen resembles a scene from a luxury design magazine, with its matte black cabinets, dark stone countertops, and an expansive island that—much like him—commands attention. There’s a row of industrial pendant lights hanging above it, their warm glow making the deep tones of the space feel rich instead of cold.
I shift my weight, trying not to think about how much I like it.
He plants his hands on the island, leaning in slightly, and my focus snaps to the way his muscles flex. It holds me in place, demanding every ounce of my attention.
His forearms tighten, veins prominent beneath dark skin; the black and gray tattoo moves with him, the design shifting as his muscles contract.
I drink in its intricacy. An angel that starts at his fingertips and winds its way up his arm, across his hard bicep, over bite-worthy capped shoulders, and up the side of his neck. Every feather, every shadow of its wings, is shaded to perfection, the kind of artistry that takes multiple sessions. I find myself drifting closer to the island, drawn by the warm light casting shadows across his skin.
I’m staring. Hard.
His voice cuts through the quiet. “Didn’t you say you wanted to clear the air about last night?”
I flinch slightly, my face heating. Reality.
I clear my throat and drop onto one of the barstools. The second I sit, I pull my knee up to my chest and wrap my arms around it, seeking some kind of comfort, but also there is an underlying wave of embarrassment.
Hex lifts a brow, eyes roving over my posture. “You’ve got long-ass legs to be sitting like that.”
