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I laugh and scoot my chair in closer.

Clint plates the pasta and sets one bowl in front of me, then the other across from it. The smell hits harder up close.

“You cook like you know what you’re doing,” I say.

“I do know what I’m doing.” He smirks. “With a lot of things.”

I should look away from his mouth.

“Need anything?” he asks.

I answer automatically. “I’m fine.”

Clint stops. One eyebrow lifts.

Right.

Say things out loud.

“Cheese,” I say. “If we have any.”

His face softens. “Was that so hard?”

“Yes.”

He laughs and reaches for the cheese on the counter.

We start to eat. Clint swirls noodles onto his fork, salty steam rising from the plate, and suddenly the flaw in this arrangement becomes clear.

I cough once. Clint looks up, his eyes shining in the steamy light. I shake my napkin out in the space between us.

“Hot pasta,” I say, placing the napkin in my lap. “Bare crotches.”

Clint’s eyebrows rise. “Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Good save, Paul.” He grabs his napkin and spreads it over his lap with great seriousness. “This being naked thing will take some getting used to.”

Clint picks up his fork, continues swirling.

“Happy birthday, Paul.”

I look down at the cheese melting into sauce.

“Thank you.”

And I mean for all of it.

Chapter thirty-three

Naked Truth

Clint

Ifind the joint in the back of the dresser under a pair of socks and a receipt for something I don’t remember buying, which feels about right.

I stand there with this fat roll of questionable beach weed and try to breathe like a normal person who didn’t accidentally build a whole evening around getting Paul Benton naked in his house.