“Uh-huh.” I select the smallest mug just to be chaotic, then make a show of turning it so the handle faces backward before pouring my coffee. “Organized chaos,” I say. “My specialty.”
His eye twitches. It’s the first real emotion I’ve seen from him since that jaw-clench when he saw me in his flannel.
“You’re doing that on purpose. Being difficult.”
I sip my coffee. It’s rich and dark and perfect, leaving me no room for complaint. Damn him.
“I’m not being difficult. I’m being myself.” I lean against the counter, cradling the mug. “Difficult is just what men call women who don’t arrange their lives for male convenience.”
Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe. Or appreciation. “That’s what you think I want? Convenience?”
“I think you want your dish towel folded in thirds and your mugs arranged by height, and you’re quietly losing your mind that I disrupt your space at all.”
His gaze holds mine, steady and unreadable. “You’re not wrong about the dish towel.”
“And the mugs?”
“I’ll survive.”
He moves to the counter, reaching past me for the French press. His arm brushes my shoulder, and his scent hits me—sweat and sawdust and something warmer underneath.
I don’t step away. Neither does he.
“Hungry?” he asks, voice low.
Yes,I think,but not for food.
“Starving,” I say instead. “And I’m cooking.”
He tries to argue. I ignore him.
“You gave me a place to stay,” I say, already rummaging through his surprisingly well-stocked fridge. “The least I can do is make breakfast.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“I know I don’t have to.” I emerge with eggs, butter, and a nearly full carton of milk. “Iwantto. There’s a difference.”
He watches me navigate his kitchen like he’s not sure whether to be annoyed or charmed. I take up too much space—opening cabinets, shifting things around, leaving a trail of deliberate disorder in my wake.
“Flour?” I ask.
“Pantry. Top shelf.”
I stand on my toes, reaching for a cabinet I can barely touch. The flannel rides up. His gaze lands on my bare legs—heavy, unmistakable.
Before I can embarrass myself further, he’s behind me, close enough that heat radiates off his chest. His arm extends past my shoulder, easily grabbing the flour I was reaching for.
I stop breathing.
His chest is inches from my back. If I leaned backward a half inch, I’d be pressed against him.
“Got it,” he says roughly.
He steps back before I can do something stupid and sets the flour on the counter with careful precision.
I don’t turn around immediately. I need a second to convince my heart rate to return to normal.
“Thanks.” It comes out steadier than I feel.
