“I’m okay,” I answer, but my voice comes out breathless. My heart starts pounding faster, and not because of the glass. Okay, maybe because of the glass. But mostly because of him.
He’s close now—close enough that I can see the sleep still clinging to his eyes, the rough shadow along his jaw. Close enough that the heat from his body brushes my skin.
I reach for the broom out of pure instinct, needing something—anything—to do with my hands. He moves it out of my reach.
“Tuck.”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he leans the broom against the counter, steps into the narrow safe space between me and the island, and before I can process what’s happening, his hands close around my waist. Warm. Solid. Possessive. My breath catches.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing. The world tilts for a split second and then the next thing I know I’m sitting on the kitchen island, the cool marble seeping through the thin fabric of my pajama pants. I’d changed earlier, wanting to be in comfortable clothes when studying.
He begins to look me over, his eyes scanning my hands and body. “Are you my doctor now?” I ask. “Or are you just playing doctor?”
“Yes.” I have no idea which questions he’s answering, because the second his dark eyes lock on mine, I lost my ability to think. “Are you hurt at all?”
“No, I’m fine.” I make a move to slide off the counter.
“Stay there,” he commands softly.
The words are quiet, but something in them sends a shiver skittering down my spine. That’s when I notice what he’s wearing. Or, more importantly, what he isn’t. I wasn’t the only one who’d slipped into something comfortable. Tuck is now in a pair of gray sweats that ride low on his hips. The waistband hangs loose, the fabric slung dangerously low, and my eyes betray me as they drop.
Hard lines. Shadows carved by rows of muscles across his stomach. The faint V that disappears beneath the cotton. I swallow hard and drag my gaze away, heat creeping up my neck. But a small sound escapes my throat before I can stop it and Tuck’s head lifts immediately.
“You okay?” he asks again, his eyes locking onto mine.
Suddenly the kitchen feels too small. Too bright. Too full of him.
Nope.
Not okay.
Not even a little.
“I…you shouldn’t be sweeping. Your calluses. I was supposed to put cream on them.”
What am I even saying?
He pauses mid-sweep and holds out one of his hands, turning it over to inspect it. His palm is rough, the skin thick from years of sticks and ice.
Wood.
“I probably should do something about them,” he says casually. “They seemed to be a sore point with Stella.”
A laugh bubbles out of my throat before I can stop it. “Are all little girls that honest?”
“Beats me.”
“Me too.” I grin, leaning back on my hands slightly. “I love my boys, but I do wonder what it would have been like to have a daughter. Maybe it’s too late for that. Do you want kids?” I ask tentatively. He might not want a ready-made family but maybe someday he’d like kids of his own.
His gaze flicks up to mine, and I spot something in his eyes, something that looks a lot like pain. “Not too late for you, Maria.”
When I realize he commented on my first statement, and didn’t answer my question, I quickly figure out having kids, or not having kids, is something he doesn’t want to talk about. I redirect and say, “No, but I’d have to have a partner first.”
Something shifts in his expression, hardens. “Isn’t Rowyn setting you up with that guy?”
Whoa.
What was that?
