The scent of coffee was stronger here, rich and warm. Sunlight stretched across the floor in long bands of gold.
Izzy followed it.
Grant stood at the kitchen counter, back to her.
Sleeves pushed up. One hand braced on the counter, the other wrapped around a mug.
He didn’t turn right away.
“Morning,” he said.
Like he already knew she was there.
Izzy leaned her shoulder lightly against the doorway.
“Do you always know when people are moving around in your house, or is that a special skill?”
He looked back over his shoulder.
“Depends on the person.”
Her mouth tipped.
“That’s not reassuring.”
He turned then, setting the mug down.
Daylight did strange things to him. The line of his jaw, the faint roughness of stubble, the stretch of his forearms under rolled sleeves, the steady look that landed on her and didn’t rush away.
His gaze dropped once, taking her in—dove-gray sweater, denim that fit like they’d been made for her, bare feet on his kitchen floor. For half a second, his expression said exactly whathe thought: even in jeans, she looked like she was about to step onto a stage somewhere, not into a barn.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said immediately. “Very much yes.”
He reached for another mug, poured, and slid it across the counter.
Izzy stepped in to take it.
Their fingers brushed.
Brief.
Heat flickered up her arm. His skin was like a fever against hers, a rough-palmed reminder that he wasn’t only a host—he was a man who worked with his hands, and right now, those hands were the only thing she was thinking about. She pulled away before it turned into something neither of them could explain.
She wrapped her hand around the mug and took a sip.
Better than any gallery catering coffee she’d had in months.
She let her eyes move around the kitchen, then brought them back to him.
“So,” she said, “to confirm—no bats in here?”
“No bats.”
“Anywhere?”
“Anywhere you’ll see.”
