I spring to my feet and spin around, rushing into the darkened hallway.
Then I halt abruptly. “Oh!” I squeak in surprise, taking a startled step back.
Chase stands at the top of the staircase, a towering silhouette framed by the soft glow of the living room light below. His wet shirt is bunched up in his hand.
In his hand.
Not on his body.
My gaze snaps up, locking with his chest—exposed, glistening with remnants of spilled beer. He’s all muscle. Sculpted with defined pecs that taper down to a tight, chiseled abdomen. Shoulders that fill out his frame like they were built for hard work. Thick arms, tanned skin, and a tattoo that snakes around to his upper back.
I trace the faint trail of dark hair that leads from his stomach, disappearing into the low-slung waistband of his jeans.
Everything inside of me locks up: thoughts, oxygen, words, balance. My vision blurs, mouth going dry. Cotton balls and tumbleweeds.
What the hell?
A strange feeling unfurls, a physical tug. It begins in the deepest part of my stomach—a tempest, dark and swirling. Then it cannonballs up my body, corkscrewing around my throat, siphoning my air. My cheeks burn, flushing with color. With horror.
No.
Oh no.
“Is that for me?”
His voice drags me from the undertow, and I shake myself out of the haze. My eyes ping up to his. He’s draped in shadow, only inches away. “What?” I croak out.
He nods at the T-shirt crumpled in my fist. “The shirt.”
“Oh, yeah, I…” My fingers slowly unclench as the air returns to my lungs. “Yes. Sorry. It might be a little small.”
“All good.” He reaches out, takes it, our fingers grazing. “Thanks.”
Chase studies me for a moment, a wrinkle between his brows. Humidity clings to my skin; it’s too hot in here. He must have left the back door open.
He turns away, tugging the shirt over his head.
Before he’s fully covered, I catch the outline of his tattoo dancing along his shoulder blades and the planks of his back as his arms slide through the sleeves.
A canvas of motion, the water tattoo stretches from shoulder to shoulder, waves rolling and crashing in inky, fluid lines. The design moves with him,rippling as his muscles flex, swirls of deep blue and black curling along his spine.
There’s a single word etched into the seafoam:“Hallelujah.”
It knocks the air out of me, the same breath I just fought to catch. “Your tattoo,” I say, my eyes scanning, skimming. “Is it religious?”
He glances at me over his shoulder, tugging the shirt down until it just touches his waistband, then turns to face me. “Not really,” he says. “Not to me, anyway. It’s a song. My sister and I used to sing it together all the time.”
I know it. Of course I know it.
That song is a masterpiece.
My gaze drags up in a lazy slide, finding his eyes. “It’s one of my favorites.”
“Mine too.” His expression softens as he stares at me, allowing the moment to marinate, stretch. Then he pulls in a shaky breath and murmurs, “Tomorrow?”
I clench my hands. “Yeah.”
“Midnight,” he confirms.
