Not because I forgot. Because I want to see if he’ll say something, and I’m a little bratty by nature.
He doesn’t. He sets his keys down, turns toward the kitchen, and gestures with a nod. “You want a drink?”
“Yeah,” I say easily. “Surprise me.”
He disappears into the kitchen, and the moment he does, my curiosity goes feral.
I wander toward the shelves, hands tucked into my pockets at first, just looking. Not touching. Yet. History books jump out immediately—spines worn, pages actuallyread. Military stuff. World War II. Some other history things I barely remember from school. A few spines with a different language, that tracks, he is obviously fluent in Spanish. While I only know how to ask for a piece of paper, the only part of it that stuck from high school.
Then I spot the football books. Playbooks. Biographies of some of the best players. Old Super Bowl highlight reels on DVD.
Huh.
Something in my chest does a weird little flip.
That’s cool. That’s…something in common.
I immediately shove that thought in the trash where it belongs. This is a one-night stand. I am not bonding over shared interests. Absolutely not.
I reach out and pull one book halfway off the shelf as curiosity gets the better of me. If I were a cat, I’d already be dead to be honest.
Behind me, I feel it—the shift in the air. As though I’ve crossed an invisible line.
Silas clears his throat. “You’re very comfortable.”
I glance over my shoulder, innocent. “Am I?”
“Most people don’t start… touching things.”
That’s my cue to lighten the mood.
I slide the book back and lift my hands in mock surrender. “Relax. I was just making sure.”
“Making sure of what?” he asks, crossing the space with a glass in each hand.
I take the one he offers—whiskey—our fingers brushing. Deliberate. I don’t miss the way his jaw tightens.
“Serial killer books,” I say casually, taking a sip. “True crime obsession is a red flag. I don’t hook up with guys who romanticize murder.”
He blinks. Once. Then twice.
Then his mouth quirks, just barely. “You might be a littledemente.”
I brighten immediately. “Thank you.”
That does it.
Something shifts in his expression—control loosening just enough for a real smile to break through. Not big. Not soft. Just a slow tilt of his mouth that hits me square in the chest like a sucker punch.
Butterflies. Actual, traitorous butterflies.
Rude.
I take another sip of whiskey and mentally pluck the wings off each and every one of them. Stomp them out. Set them on fire. This is a one-night stand, not a meet-cute. I am not catching feelings in a man’s living room surrounded by history books and football crap.
Absolutely not.
Silas watches me over the rim of his glass, eyes warm now, amused in a way that feels dangerously personal. Like he’s actually enjoying me instead of just tolerating my chaos.
