The Canal Street dump was still available.
“How’s cohabitation going?” June asked, failing at suppressing a knowing smile.
She’d been smiling a lot more ever since she and Angelo got together.
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, just peachy. Now we have an in-house gym, a Range Rover jamming up the lane, and a fridge full of protein shakes and grilled chicken fillets. You would have lost your mind by now.”
June arched a brow. “Youdoremember what I live with?” She gave me a pointed look. “A dairy-loving carnivore in my vegan kitchen.”
“But youlovehim.”
“And you don’t?”
“Oh, IloveAngelo.” I chuckled.
She poked a finger against my chest, silent but smug, as if saying,I see right through you.
I ignored her. “Okay, I’d better not be late for babysitting, or Nicole will never forgive me.”
My lime-green Kia looked like a toy parked next to Owen’s luxury SUV when I got home.
Passing by the storage-turned-gym, I caught the unmistakable sound of weights clanking. Then ... grunts. Low, deep, exerted grunts.
My heart and core pulsed in unison.
I shouldnotlook.
Ishould notlook.
I looked.
Owen, shirtless, was on the bench press, lifting a bar loaded with plates, his arms flexing with each movement. Biceps, forearms, shoulders, chest—everything taut, corded, andglistening.
I barely swallowed a whimper.
Great. Maybe the Canal Street dump wouldn’t bethatbad after all.
After making sure Walter had everything he needed for dinner, I showered and got ready.
I was about to knock on Owen’s door when it swung open.
And there he was—a six-foot-two wall of muscle, fresh from the shower, deep blue eyes, wet brown hair ruffled just enough to make my fingers twitch.
My God.This man.
He wore a blue Henley that made his eyes insanely bluer and a pair of olive-green slacks—probably the expensive version of Dockers. Even his scuffed brown boots were a fashion statement.
“All set?” he asked.
“Great,” I responded absent-mindedly, a snarky comment hovering on the tip of my tongue about how Chloe and Emma would surely appreciate his designer babysitting attire.
Simon and Nicole lived on the other side of Blueshore, in a neatly arranged neighborhood where all the houses looked almost identical—same size, same shape, different color fronts and fences.
Simon was waiting for us at the door.
“Were we late?” Owen asked, glancing at his definitely expensive watch and giving Simon a half-hug.
“No, no, you’re good.” Simon adjusted his collar. “Nicole needs to stop by a friend’s house first, and that’s out of our way, so we have to leave now if we want to make our reservation.”
