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“Do you want coffee?” she asks as I step into the kitchen.

“Sure.”

She gestures toward the table and chairs. They clearly don’t have many dinner parties. The kitchen is tiny. The little nook where their table and chairs are tucked leaves no space for even an added seat.

This room is the definition of cozy. The appliances and cabinetry are obviously dated, but Sutton has made it feel homey, with a spice rack full of clearly well-used bottles, pans drying on one side of the sink, pretty blue-and-white flowered placemats on top of the white wooden table, and other little touches that say home.

I start toward the table, but as I’m reaching for a chair, suddenly Sutton is there. Right there. Against me. Then in front of me. But still against me.

“Sorry. Uh, just…let me clear a spot,” she mumbles as she slips in between me and the table.

Her back is to my front, her ass against my thighs as she bends slightly, slamming a book shut, reaching for a notepad and grabbing up some pens.

Jesus Christ.

I start to instinctively reach for her hips—to push her away or pull her closer, I’m not sure—but I'm able to ball my hands into fists at the last second instead, as she suddenly straightens.

She spins to face me, the books clasped to her breasts.

She is right there now, the backs of her knuckles brushing my chest. Her sweet, spicy scent rises around me. She has to tip her head back to look up at me, and her eyes widen as she realizes how close we’re standing.

I grit my teeth as her lips fall open and her gaze drops to my mouth.

Every. Fucking. Time.

“Oh!” she says, breathlessly. “Sorry. I was just…” She swallows. “There. Now there’s room.”

She slips around me, her body brushing mine because there is no space in the little alcove, and I take a second to pull in another breath.

I quickly take a seat, hoping to hide my semi-hard cock. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I watch her shove the books she just retrieved between some cookbooks on a shelf just to the right of the stove.

And it hits me—she was journaling.

That was the journal.

Or one like it.

She had the journal open on the kitchen table just like the time Beckett found it and read about how she wanted me to teach her about sex.

Heat hits me sharp and sudden. Like someone just shoved a hot knife into my balls.

And about as painfully.

Fuck.

What was she writing this time?

Was there anything about me in there?

The notebook is right there. Four steps across the kitchen and I could read it for myself, in her handwriting. Her most intimate thoughts. From just a few minutes ago.

I close my eyes and force oxygen into my lungs as a thought crosses my mind that is all too familiar: Teaching Sutton everything I know and love about sex would ruin everything for me here in Rebel. Rebel loves Beckett more than they love me. For sure. If someone fucked things up and had to leave the team and everyone had to take sides, I would be the one who would be gone.

But goddammit, it might be worth it.

Yeah, that thought always follows right on the heels of all the reasons not to do all of that.