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With the same grin on his face, he shrugs and gives a quick head shake. “I didn’t say anything.”

I narrow my eyes at him, sitting on his rolling stool all smug. “Something wrong with me watching?”

“Nope,” he chuckles. His attention shifts, pausing on my hand. Gently, Casper hooks his arm under my palm to avoid contaminating his gloves. My fingers fan across his warm, bare tattooed forearm. He glimpses at me, then back to my glossy nails, raising his brow.

“Orange,” he comments with a smirk, lowering my hand.

He noticed.

“Thought I would try it out,” I explain, trying to sound as casual as possible.

“Very pretty.” His gaze catches mine one last time before he glides even closer to me, returning his focus to the piece on my back.

I instinctively respond with a sharp inhale, not out of fear, but because of the odd feeling that washes over me whenever his body brushes against mine. I ignore the flutter in my stomach.

Funny how when I first started with him here, I was afraid of a man’s hands on my back, now I welcome his touch. I don’t know what it says about my preservation instincts that I feel protected by the same guy who had me jumping out of an airplane ten thousand feet above the ground, but it’s true. The guy who sticks needles in me has inspired confidence. For the first time in a long time I’m learning to trust a man who isn’t my brother.

Three years ago, the ability to deem a man physically attractive was inconceivable. But here I sit, admiring Casper’s cut jaw and bright chestnut eyes as he works. His fucking hands, the artwork is beautiful, and incredibly sexy in the same way motorcycles are. Unfortunately they’re covered up right now, but it lets me appreciate the tattoos on his corded forearms, which are very distracting when his sleeves are pushed to his elbows.

“Hungry?” he asks.

I almost choke. “Pardon?”

Damn it, I’ve been ogling him for the last few minutes. In a totally platonic way, of course. He’s attractive, it’s a biological reaction, nothing personal.

He straightens his back and holds his hands away from his body. “Well, you know where to find it.”

I dip my chin. Excuse me?

“The snack bin, you pervert.”

“I know!” I say defensively. I reach to the side, quickly opening the cabinet and grabbing an applesauce pouch from the basket. The door slams a little too hard when I close it. Casper shifts forward and picks up where he left off on my back. I unscrew the top, trying not to think about the fact that I’m sucking applesauce out of a bag, while I attempt to erase the embarrassment of my thoughts.

“Jeez, Duchess,” he mutters, and I can just barely feel his breath warm my skin. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say checking me out makes you work up an appetite.”

My jaw freezes and I turn my head away from the mirror. Oh shit.

“You’re mistaken,” I say, laughing it off. “Actually I was staring at you thinking about how disappointed I am that I still don’t have that pie you promised me.”

“Uh-huh.”

Arguing my point will only dig my hole deeper. Just be cool. Be so fucking cool.

“I baked you a pie. I left it on your doorstep, you didn’t get it?”

“No?”

The corner of his mouth turns up. “Ghosts probably ate it.”

“Ha,” I scoff, half out of relief, the other half out of annoyance at him.

“Be straight with me, do you really think your apartment is haunted?”

“I have no idea,” I say with a chuckle. I really don’t know what to think. I’m not someone who believes in the supernatural, but I also can’t explain some of the unusual things happening at home.

“Who else has a key?”

“My brother. And the landlord.”