Except, I’m such a liar.
6
CLAIRE
“Let me see that scratch before you get cat bacteria and lose the arm.”
I laugh at Brody’s overexaggeration, glancing down at the three red lines on my forearm, thin and slightly stinging, a gift from Princess Anastasia Snowdrop. “It’s barely anything.”
“Sit.” He pats the stool next to the island, where Damien is perched, golden eyes tracking every movement in the kitchen. The cheese pull-apart sits on the marble countertop, smelling divine, still steaming. Then Brody heads out of the kitchen and down the hallway, saying something about getting his first aid kit.
His gray joggers hang low on his hips, and the black T-shirt pulls across his shoulder blades. I have no self-control because my gaze drops to where the fabric stretches over his ass, and I hold there for a full, shameless second before I do as I’m told and sit, while Damien headbutts my arm immediately.
“Hi to you too.”
He does it again, harder, pressing his skull into my bicep with the urgency of a cat staking a claim. I lean down until my face is level with his. “Don’t make it obvious,” I whisper. “I’m trying to be cool.”
He trills.
“I’m serious. Poker face. Both of us.”
I run my hand down his back, and he arches into it, spine curving against my palm, purring so loudly the vibration travels up my wrist. His eyes blink up at me, and my chest squeezes at how affectionate this cat is.
“I’m not here to cause trouble,” I tell him softly. “Promise.”
Footsteps behind me, and I straighten.Act natural.
“What are you two conspiring about?” Brody sets a small first aid kit on the counter and flips it open.
“He’s protective of you,” I say. “Headbutting me into submission.”
“He only does that for people he trusts, so count yourself lucky.” He pulls out antiseptic wipes and butterfly strips and steps close enough that his hip brushes the edge of my stool. His scent rolls over me—salted caramel and hickory wood—and my lungs fill with it before I can brace myself. It sinks past my chest and ribs, settling low in my belly, and every nerve ending along my skin prickles awake.
He takes my arm, his touch leaving me tingling all over. His fingers wrap around my wrist, turning it so the scratches face up. His hand is twice the size of mine. There are calluses on his palm, and his thumb rests against the inside of my wrist where my pulse is out of control.
“This might sting,” he murmurs.
The antiseptic bites. I hiss through my teeth, and his grip tightens, steadying me, so I use the sting as an excuse to stare at him because he’s focused on my arm and isn’t looking at my face. This way, I study him without getting caught.
His jaw, this close, is sharper than I realized. His lashes are dark, casting shadows on his cheekbones every time he blinks. His lips are parted slightly in concentration, and I track the shape of them, the full lower lip, the defined Cupid’s bow. Mybrain helpfully supplies the image of those lips on my skin, and I have to clench my free hand against my thigh to keep from visibly reacting.
He dabs the antiseptic along each scratch. His head is bent close to my arm, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath on my skin, and the combination of his scent and proximity leaves me breathless.
Something’s happening in my chest. Not the anxiety tightness, as this is different. A slow, pulling sensation, as if a compass needle inside me just found north. My instincts seem to be stretching, responding to something in his scent that feels less random and more… specific. Matched. I don’t have the courage to follow that thought to its conclusion because it’s insanity to even consider that, so I file it away and focus on his hands. Huge palms, long, thick fingers.
Damien instantly leaps from the counter onto my lap, and I yelp. Brody doesn’t flinch.
“If he’s not the center of attention, he creates a crisis. It’s his main skill,” he explains.
Damien settles across my thighs, purring aggressively, and I rest one hand on his back while Brody applies the butterfly strips. His fingers smooth the edges against my skin, pressing gently. My breath hitches as his gaze lifts to mine.
Blue. So close they’re almost violet in the kitchen light. The playfulness has gone quiet. What’s left is him staring at me with an intensity that pins me to the stool, and he’s not pulling away.
Damien chirps between us, and I exhale. “Someone’s demanding attention,” I manage with a lopsided grin.
“He can wait.” But Brody steps back, glancing down at Damien, and the space he leaves behind feels cavernous. “Okay. You’ll survive.”
Then he slides the pull-apart toward me with paper napkins, proceeds to grab glasses, and pours iced tea from a jug in thefridge. His movements are easy, the comfort of a man in his own zone, and I watch him reach for the high shelf. His shirt rides up, exposing a strip of stomach and the cut of muscle along his hip, and I shove a piece of bread into my mouth so fast I almost choke.
