“You didn’t hear what I was gonna ask.”
“No,” I repeated.
Trigger hopped down anyway. “Do you think Riley likes me?”
“No.”
“I feel like she does.”
“She doesn’t.”
He nodded sagely. “You’re probably right. Women who are that hot usually fall for Saint.”
Saint blinked. “Why am I in this conversation?”
Havoc—ripping out old molding with enough force to scare God—grunted, “Because you look like a Disney prince who kills people.”
Saint considered. “Fair.”
Trigger leaned closer. “Maybe Nora likes you,” he whispered.
My pry bar slipped.
Trigger’s eyes widened. “Oh my GOD—she totally does.”
“Get out,” I said.
“I live here,” he said.
“You’re thirty-three, stop acting like a boy with a crush.”
“Easy for you to say,” Trigger said.
But before I could respond, footsteps tapped down the hallway.
Soft footsteps.
Nora's footsteps.
Trigger’s grin turned feral. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”
I shot him a look promising death and turned toward the hall.
Nora appeared in the doorway wearing a navy skirt, a fitted silk blouse, and a determined expression that could move mountains.
Then she froze.
Her eyes landed on me.
Specifically on my bare chest.
Her pupils dilated.
Her breath hitched.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt… self-conscious.
I cleared my throat. “Nora.”
