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Then he glares at me and marches off.

This morning when I let myself in the door, I’m juggling his cold brew, my usual morning Diet Coke, and a small bag of groceries. Austin’s big on anti-inflammatory foods, and I’ve memorized his protein smoothie recipe. One cup of whole milk, half cup of Greek yogurt, two scoops of vanilla whey protein, a big handful of berries—since his hands are so much bigger than mine, I need to do two handfuls—some kale, a tablespoon of turmeric, teaspoon of chia seeds, and sprinkling of ginger.

But he ran out of frozen blueberries, and I thought I’d bring him some other frozen fruit in case he wanted to mix it up a bit. So I also bought banana, strawberry, mango, and pomegranate seeds since Google said they were anti-inflammatory as well. I’m in the middle of putting the bags in the freezer when Austin struts out into the living room.

Shirtless.

My brain cells immediately stop working, causing my organs to go into minor ataxia, including my nervous system. At the miles of hard torso and smooth skin, save for the trail of dark hair from his navel leading down to below his shorts, my arms and hands spasm, and I knock over my soda. The travel cup falls to the floor, and I watch in slow-motion horror as it flips end over end and hits the hardwood floor in spectacular fashion, the lid flying off. As the brown liquid spreads, I jump into action, only to plow into Austin. He grunts, his ribs taking the brunt of it, I think, and I reflexively place my hand on his side, apologizing.

“I’m so, so sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He curls his fingers around my shoulders, and suddenly, I realize how close we are, my toes right up against his, my knees knocking into his shins. “It’s okay, Millie.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

He squeezes my shoulders. “I know.”

“I told you. I’m clumsy.”

“And it’s not a big deal.” He stretches his arm to retrieve a roll of paper towel from the counter and steps around me to clean up my mess.

“Let me do that. It’s my job.” I bend, grabbing at the roll, but he bats me away. When I try again, he physically lifts me up and sets me on the counter. I’m so shocked by the action, I go silent as he cleans up my soda and tosses all the garbage away.

When he finally spins back to me, he lifts his cold brew to his lips as if the last forty-five seconds didn’t happen. Without my permission, my gaze tracks his swallow, the lifting and lowering of his Adam’s apple, the almost infinitesimal tension of his throat and chest and the relaxation of those muscles.

The human body is a thing of wonder.

His body is a thing of beauty.

And I swallow thickly before forcing my attention up to his face, where I find him already watching me. If he cared I was practically drooling over the expanse of his pectorals, he doesn’t show it.

“You should’ve let me clean it up,” I tell him, and his nostrils flare as he exhales. He takes one step, two, and then he’s close enough for his abs to brush my knees when he sets his drink on the counter next to me.

“Does it matter who cleans it up?”

“You’re paying me to help you, and I already feel like I’m taking advantage of you. I don’t do anything.”

“You take care of Harold. You bring me coffee. You make me smoothies.”

I sigh. “Yeah, but that’s nothing. You could let me…” I search his condo for something. “Clean.”

Which is stupid because this place is spotless. Bare of furniture and any specks of dust.

“You’re not cleaning my apartment, Millie.”

“Why not?”

“Because—”

“Hey, dickhead!” Harold clacks a few times, stepping side to side on his seat.

I cover my mouth, hiding my giggle as Austin rolls his eyes before he settles his split spring sky and dark storm gaze on my mouth. With me on the counter, we’re almost the same height, and it would take nothing for me to lean forward and⁠—

“Mwah! Mwah! Mwah!” Harold squeaks in his cage, making kissy noises, and I throw my head back laughing as Austin backs away from me.

I don’t think either of us realized he’d been standing between my knees, but now that he’s no longer in my space, I’m suddenly cold. Austin yells at the bird. “Fuck off!”

“Hey, dickhead!”