Page 32 of The Heartbreaker Next Door

“Noted,” I said, and made a mental note to install soft-close hinges on every door by Sunday.

He moved through my home with the natural confidence of someone who’d grown up in a place where nothing worked right unless you fixed it yourself. I followed him into the kitchen, where he’d already cleared a corner of my cluttered counter and arranged the donuts with methodical precision. It might have been the most romantic thing anyone had done for me all year.

I watched him pour coffee into the ugly chipped mug I’d inherited from my uncle. For a moment, the sight of those big, capable hands—steady, sure, careful not to spill—sent a sparkle of warmth through me that had nothing to do with caffeine and everything to do with the man holding the carafe.

“What do you do to relax?” I asked, trying not to sound as breathless as I felt.

His eyes met mine and a heat passed between us, warming my entire body as if I’d just downed a shot of Fireball. I wondered if he felt what I was feeling, the exchange of energy between us. If he had, he ignored it in his response.

“Relaxing is for people who want to get less done.”

I tried to ignore the arousal spiking in my body and defuse the situation. “So you’re saying I’m lazy,” I teased.

“Never. You created an atmosphere of calm domestication to preserve energy,” he deadpanned, then handed me the mug.

Our fingers brushed. The jolt went straight to my brainstem.

Before I could decide whether to lean into the moment or run away from it, the familiar slap of tiny feet on hardwood echoed down the stairs. Maverick hurtled into the room, hair sticking out in all directions and face smeared with what I had to hope was last night’s chocolate pudding and not a new, more horrifying substance.

“Pancakes!” he bellowed, arms raised in a gesture of pure triumph.

Dean blinked, caught between bemusement and concern for his own safety. “Good morning.”

Maverick spotted Dean and veered toward him at full speed. He launched himself at Dean’s knees with the reckless abandon of a child who had never encountered his own mortality.

To his credit, Dean caught him mid-dive, one arm around Maverick’s middle, the other steadying the coffee so it didn’t spill. He then flipped Maverick, so he was dangling upside down, and Mav began giggling like a maniac.

“Are you making the pancakes?!” Maverick demanded as the blood rushed to his face.

“I brought donuts.” Dean turned, so Mav could see the donuts.

“But we have pancakes on Saturday.”

Mav liked pancakes more than donuts, and we did have pancakes every Saturday. Dean, who had clearly not anticipated being drafted into breakfast service, looked to me for help.

“I’m gonna make the pancakes,” I assured him.

“No, I want Dean pancakes,” Maverick insisted.

Dean set him right side up and, after a beat, ruffled his hair. “I don’t know if I can make pancakes as good as your mom.”

“Mom burns them,” Maverick said, unintentionally throwing me under the bus with his brutal honesty.

Dean considered this. “I think I can handle not-burnt pancakes.”

“Yesss!” Maverick hissed, fist-pumping like a tiny, semi-feral victory machine.

While Dean shifted into pancake production mode, Maverick circled the kitchen, peppering him with questions. “Do you have kids? Are you married? What’s your favorite dinosaur?” The questions careened from topic to topic, each more blunt and revealing than the last.

Dean fielded them with remarkable patience, never flinching even when Maverick asked if he ever “peed his pants at work.” He had not, but he admitted to falling in a pond while chasing a runaway bull. When asked about children, Dean’s answer was simple: “No kids.” When asked if he would ever want any, he paused, spatula in hand, then said, “Maybe someday. Right now, I just borrow other people’s.”

Maverick nodded, as if this was the height of logic. “You can borrow me sometimes.”

A silence hung in the air after that, awkward but not uncomfortable. I busied myself with setting the table, but the words followed me around the kitchen, heavy and warm and a little dangerous.

As Dean ladled batter onto the griddle, he looked at Maverick. “Do you want them shaped like anything?”

“Dinosaurs!” Maverick shouted, because obviously.