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“Then have at it.”

I’m not sure where the move comes from, but I slide my hands beneath the hem of his shirt, running my fingertips over the rich bank of abs, lifting the fabric. Sunny runs his tongue over his lower lip, then bites down on it.

But there’s a look of pride in his eyes, and I believe what he said earlier. That I am, perhaps, already doing better than I think.

I press a kiss in the valley between his pecs, then lift the T-shirt over his head.

And it gets stuck.

Sunny starts laughing.

“Stop moving,” I say, trying to get the fabric over his chin, like the concept of a chin is new to me.

“I’m not,” he says, his voice muffled by the fabric. “I’m breathing, if that’s still allowed.”

I finally wrestle the shirt over his head and throw it onto the dresser. “You keep laughing, I’ll use it to smother you.”

He grips my chin, raises my face to his. “If you’re gonna suffocate me, I’d rather you do it riding my face.”

Heat fills my cheeks, and I can’t determine if it’s the power of his words or because I’m getting another look at his exceptionally fine chest.

Seeing him a second time should, theoretically, make seeing him shirtless less significant.

But it doesn’t.

If anything, he’s even more breathtaking. Likely because this is interactive Sunny. The first time I saw him naked, he was mid-yoga pose. And I was too busy experiencing a terrifying neurological event to properly appreciate all the individual components.

The shirt removal mussed up his hair, making him look even more attractive than before. I place my fingers on his shoulders and run them down over tanned, smooth skin until I reach the hair that covers his chest.

He must have removed it previously to have all the ink that is scattered across his chest applied.

I place my palm against his pec and find his heart is racing in fast, solid thumps. “Your heart rate is elevated.”

“Wonder why that could be, Indy?”

“You don’t seem nervous,” I say.

“Who says I’m not?”

That surprises me. “You’re nervous? Why?”

“Because I like you, Della. And all this feels good. And I know it’s gonna keep feeling even better. And it’s exciting. And I want you to enjoy it, so I’m scared of getting it wrong. You think just because I maybe have more experience than you or because I’m the guy, I wouldn’t feel all those things?” Sunny covers my hand with his. “So, yeah. I like you, Della.”

The four words land differently from all his flirting. There’s no grin. No joke attached to them. No outrageous statement to make me blush.

Just four words. I like you, Della.

It was a shitty assumption on my part that he couldn’t possibly share the nerves I carry, and I know better than to draw a conclusion without having all the data. I put half the pieces together and came up with an answer because he’s Sunny. Sunny, who walks through life like it was designed for his entertainment. Sunny, who can talk to anybody and fight anyone who comes at him and performs yoga naked without experiencing a second of self-consciousness.

But just because he’s all those things doesn’t mean that, beneath them, he couldn’t be nervous and excited and anxious, just like me.

I stare at our hands, his enormous one over mine. “You barely know me.”

“I know enough. I know you need more information. Trends or correlations or some shit.” He pats his fingers over mine, like a heartbeat. “But some things you just feel, you know. And I know you’re enjoying this, but also still trying to figure out how we work. And I wish I could help you get to an answer a little quicker. Because I don’t want you to be scared.”

“That’s all sensible,” I say as I grapple with better words.

He lifts my hand from his chest, changes his grip, then kisses the back of it. “Might be the first time in my life anyone ever associated the word sensible with me.”