Page 63

My stomach became a nest of butterflies as I looked up to find Tyson holding a massive umbrella over both of us, already half-soaked himself from running out to meet me.

“You weren’t fast enough,” he said, rain dripping from his hair.

“Sorry for not having five-foot legs…”

He bent and scooped me over his shoulder in one smooth motion.

“Tyson! Put me down!”

“Nope.”

He jogged toward his house while I pounded on his back, laughing despite myself. His shoulder shook with his own laughter, and for a moment the storm didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except this ridiculous man carrying me through a downpour because I’d texted him in a panic.

We burst through his door in a tangle of wet limbs and laughter.

“You’re making puddles on the floor!”

Noa stood in the hallway with her hands on her hips, looking every inch the disapproving grandmother trapped in a five-year-old’s body.

I snorted. “Sorry, tiny dictator.”

“I’m not tiny!”

“You’re right. You’re fun-sized.” I opened my arms wide, still dripping. “Come give me a hug!”

“No! You’re all wet!” She shrieked with delight and took off running.

I chased her through the living room, both of us laughing as she darted around furniture. By the time she escaped upstairs, I was breathless and creating new puddles with every step.

“Come on, water monster,” Tyson chuckled. “You’ll get sick.”

He guided me upstairs to his room, lighting a few candles, and my stomach did a weird flip. Three months of friendship and I hadn’t been in his bedroom once since I slept there after babysitting Noa. It still smelled woodsy and clean, distinctly him. And it looked hella romantic.

“Here.” He pulled clothes from his dresser. “These should fit.”

I moved to the bathroom and changed quickly in the dark, trying not to think about wearing his clothes. The t-shirt hung loose, smelling faintly of his detergent. The sweatpants had to be rolled three times at the waist. I probably looked ridiculous and felt weirdly intimate, wrapped in fabric that had touched his skin.

When I emerged from the bathroom, words died in my throat.

Tyson stood by his dresser, shirtless, reaching for fresh clothes himself. Muscles rippled across his back with the movement, becoming ten times hotter under the candlelight. Construction work had carved his body into something that belonged in museums, not standing in a bedroom in Tennessee. Holy shit.

“Oh.”

He turned at my voice, and we both froze.

My mouth went desert dry. I knew I was staring but couldn’t stop. His chest was artwork, all defined planes and golden skin. A pink scar curved across his left pectoral, and my feet moved without permission, carrying me closer.

“What happened?” I whispered, finger tracing the mark with feather lightness.

He went still under my touch, and I clearly saw the goosebumps in his skin. “Hand grinding machine accident six years ago.”

His hand came up to catch mine, but instead of pushing it away like I half expected him to do, he pressed my entire palm flat against his chest. His heart hammered beneath my touch, matching the frantic rhythm of my own.

Holy fuck. It should be illegal to be this hot.

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest into my palm. “Enjoying the view? That’s not illegal, Sam.”

Oh my god. Had I said that out loud?!