And my brain short-circuits.
Eli is standing on the porch. Shirtless. Completely, gloriously shirtless.
His chest is broad and defined, muscles carved in a way that suggests years of the kind of labor that doesn't happen in a gym. There's a light sheen of sweat covering his skin, catching the sunlight, and I watch a bead of it trickle down from his collarbone, over his pecs, down the defined ridges of his six-pack abs, and disappear into the waistband of his jeans.
His jeans are sitting low on his hips. Very low.
I forget how to form words.
He's holding an axe in one hand, looking at me like I'm a natural disaster he didn't see coming, and all I can think is that this is deeply unfair. No one should look like that. It violates some kind of law of nature.
"Hi," I manage finally, my voice coming out slightly higher than normal.
His eyes narrow. "What are you doing here?"
Right. Words. I know words.
"I brought you something," I say, standing up on legs that feel questionable.
He doesn't move. Just stares at me with those storm-gray eyes, sweat still glistening on his chest, and I have to physically force myself to look at his face instead of anywhere else.
"It's lasagna," I add, like that clarifies anything.
"Why?"
"Because you helped me. And I wanted to say thank you."
He glances at the pan in my hands, then back at my face. I'm trying so hard to maintain eye contact. So hard. But my peripheral vision is very aware of the fact that he's half-naked and gleaming like some kind of lumberjack fantasy come to life.
"You didn't need to do that," he says.
"I know. I wanted to."
There's a long pause. Ridge is leaning against my legs, tail wagging, completely oblivious to the fact that I'm having a minor crisis.
"I don't need charity," Eli says finally.
"It's not charity. It's lasagna."
"Same thing."
"It's really not." I take a step closer to the porch, trying very hard to keep my eyes on his face and not on the way his shoulders flex when he shifts his weight. "Look, I know you don't want me here. I know you like your space and your quiet and your whole hermitthing you've got going on. But you helped me, and where I come from, you don't let that go without saying thank you properly. So just take the lasagna. Eat it. Throw it away. Feed it to Ridge. I don't care. But let me say thank you."
He's still staring at me, but something in his expression changes. Not much. Just a little.
"Fine," he says.
I blink. "Fine?"
"Bring it here."
I climb the porch steps, very aware of the fact that I'm about to be within arm's reach of all that glistening, muscled—
Fuck.
I hold out the pan. He sets the axe down and takes it, his hands dwarfing the dish. This close, I can see the scars on his chest. Not many, but enough to tell a story. There's one across his ribs that looks old, faded. Another near his shoulder that's newer.
I should not be cataloging his scars. I should not be noticing the way his abs contract when he moves. I should definitely not be thinking about what it would feel like to—
