This is going to be a very long day.
The soundof a motorcycle pulling into the driveway makes my heart skip and I glance at the clock.
12:01 p.m.
Ryder is home early.
I hear his heavy footsteps on the porch, then the front door. But instead of coming upstairs to find me, I hear him moving around in the kitchen.
“Noia?” his rough, sexy voice floats up from downstairs. “I brought lunch.”
My stomach chooses that moment to growl. I’ve been so absorbed in writing that I forgot to eat.
I go downstairs.
Ryder is leaning against the counter wearing dark jeans and a tight black Henley. His hair is slightly disheveled, and there’s a smudge of ink on his forearm.
He looks good enough to eat.
“You’re home early,” I state, trying to keep my voice neutral.
“Slow day. Figured I’d come home and we could make lunch together.” He gestures to the counter where he’s laid out ingredients for what looks like gourmet sandwiches—thick slices of bread, turkey, avocado, and some kind of fancy cheese.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to.” His eyes meet mine, and there’s something different about them today. They seem more intense, more focused. “Besides, I figured you’d be hungry. You tend to lose track of time when you write and forget to take care of yourself.”
His attention to detail makes a thrill shoot up my spine.
“We’re going to make them together,” he says, motioning for me to join him. “I’m going to teach you how to make a proper sandwich.”
I roll my eyes. “I know how to make a sandwich.”
“Not like this, you don’t.” His voice is authoritative and full of swagger.
“Fine.”
I move to stand next to him at the kitchen island and, side by side, we begin making lunch.
When I reach for the bread, our fingers brush, sending an electric jolt up my arm. I pull back quickly, but not before I see the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“You okay there, kitten?” he asks, trying to act all innocent and shit.
“Yes,” I mutter, focusing on spreading the mustard.
The length of his body brushes against mine as he reaches across me for the tomatoes. I know he’s doing it on purpose—the subtle touches, the occasional casual brush of his body against mine—it’s all part of his “slow-burn” plot.
Well, two can play at this game.
Instead of asking him to hand me the mayo, I lean across the marble, which puts my ass in the air.
When I straighten, he’s behind me, his chest nearly touching my back, breath warm on my neck.
“Need help with that?” he murmurs, brushing his lips against my ear.
I freeze, knife suspended mid-air, my heart hammering loud enough against my ribs I wouldn’t be surprised if he can hear it.
The heat of his body spreads over mine, and it takes all the power I’ve got to fight the urge to lean back against him.
