Page 35 of The Summer We Lie

"Skye?"

A deep voice says from behind me causing me to jump, almost dropping a plate, my heart leaping into my throat.

"Shit," I say and whip my head around to see Dom shirtless and in grey sweatpants of all things. My eyes rake across his body, taking it all in, unable to stop myself.

His chest is broad with just the right amount of dark hair trailing down to his stomach, disappearing beneath the waistband of his sweatpants like an arrow pointing downward. His shoulders are wide, his arms defined but not bulky. He's fit in that way that speaks of actual strength rather than hours spent trying to look good at the gym. I notice a small scar near his collarbone and wonder about its story.

I realize I'm staring and quickly look back at the dishes, my cheeks burning so hot I'm surprised the water doesn't sizzle when it splashes up. "Sorry, I couldn't sleep. I thought I'd help clean up."

"You don't need to do that," he says, voice gruff with sleep but still somehow commanding. "You're a guest here."

"I don't mind," I mumble, focusing intently on scrubbing a pot that's already clean, my fingers working nervously over the surface. "It's the least I can do after that amazing dinner."

He moves closer, and I can feel the heat radiating from his body, like standing near a fire on a cold night. He reaches past me to grab a glass from the cabinet, his arm brushing mine. Every nerve ending in my body lights up at the contact, electricity crackling across my skin.

"Trouble sleeping?" he asks, filling his glass with water from the refrigerator door, the quiet hum of the machine the only sound besides my thundering heartbeat.

"Yeah, new place, I guess." I don't mention that thoughts of him might be keeping me awake. Or the email from Obsidian that's making me wonder what's really going on between us. Or how his presence makes me forget how to breathe normally.

"Me too," he admits, leaning against the counter next to me. "Work stuff on my mind."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The kitchen suddenly feels too small, the air too thick with tension and unspoken words. I'm painfully aware that I'm standing here in sleep shorts and a thin tank top with no bra, my nipples embarrassingly hard beneath the fabric, while he's half-naked beside me. Every breath feels significant, weighted with possibilities I've never dared consider before.

"You really don't have to do the dishes," he says again.

"I want to." I risk a glance up at him and immediately wish I hadn't. His eyes are dark in the dim kitchen lighting, intense as they meet mine, like he can see right through me to all my secrets and desires.

I rinse a plate and settle it into the dishwasher, acutely aware of his presence beside me. The silence between us stretches, filled with something I can't quite name but can definitely feel—like static electricity before a storm, crackling with potential energy that makes the fine hairs on my arms stand on end.

"So, I got an email from Obsidian," I say suddenly, the words tumbling out before I can second-guess myself. My heart hammers against my ribs as soon as I mention it, wondering if I've crossed some invisible boundary.

"Oh?" His voice is neutral, carefully controlled, but when I glance over, he's watching me with an intensity that makes my skin tingle all the way down to my toes. His eyes track my movements like he's cataloging every breath.

"Yeah, it said they haven't heard from either of us, and I thought you were canceling it." My hands fidget with the dish towel, wringing it between my fingers until the fabric twists like my insides. The soft cotton provides something tangible to focus on besides the overwhelming heat of his proximity.

"Yeah, sorry, I forgot to do it," he says, running a hand through his hair, the dark strands sliding through his fingers. "I'll do it tomorrow."

"It's okay. They said they'll cancel it if they don't hear back from us anyway." I place the last of the silverware into the dishwasher, relieved to have something to focus on besides his bare chest with its perfect definition and scattered dark hair that trails down into his pajama bottoms. I force my eyes away before they can follow that dangerous path.

"Okay, that's good," he says, and his voice sounds slightly strained, like he's holding something back.

I shut the water off and look around the unfamiliar kitchen, desperate for anything to extend this moment that feels both terrifying and exhilarating. "Is the detergent down here?" I ask, bending over to look in the cabinet under the sink. The silence stretches uncomfortably, and when he doesn't answer, I hear a low, almost pained groan behind me.

I look back to find him staring at my ass, his eyes dark with something primal that sends heat rushing through my core like wildfire. Part of me—a part I didn't know existed until this moment—wants his eyes on me. Wants his hands on me too, gripping my hips, pulling me back against him. But the other part knows how terrible an idea that is. He's Harper's dad, for fuck's sake. I love her more than almost anyone in the world and can't lose her over some crazy attraction that's probably all in my head anyway.

I grab the detergent and squeeze some into the compartment, then close both it and the dishwasher door with slightly trembling hands. My fingers feel clumsy, uncoordinated by his presence. I return the bottle under the sink and start the machine, the quiet hum filling the kitchen, masking the sound of my racing heartbeat.

When I turn back to him, something's changed in the atmosphere between us. His eyes are darker than before, almost black in the dim kitchen light, his jaw tighter, muscles visibly clenching beneath his stubbled skin. He looks like he's at war with himself, tension radiating from his powerful frame, and when my gaze drifts downward, I notice a bulge that wasn't there before. An impressive bulge that makes my mouth go dry and heat pool between my thighs.

"Mr. Grayson," I say, walking closer to him, drawn by some magnetic force I don't understand but can't resist. "Is everything okay? Did I do something wrong?" I stop just in front of him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, to smell his expensive cologne mixed with something uniquely male.

"Go to bed," he says roughly, his voice dropping an octave, his eyes boring into mine with an intensity that should terrify me but instead ignites something deep inside.

Did he just tell me to go to bed like a child? Like I'm Harper's little friend who needs supervision? Indignation flares within me, cutting through the haze of attraction.

"Excuse me?" I ask, lifting my chin defiantly, refusing to be dismissed.

He moves suddenly, walking into me, backing me up until I hit the counter edge, the granite cold against my lower back in stark contrast to the heat of him in front. My heart pounds against my ribs so hard I wonder if he can hear it.