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That unexpected softness in his gaze, a flicker of humanity beneath the threatening exterior, unsteadies me more than any arrogance could. He shifts, and his gaze drops to my dress. The cupcakes dotting the fabric seem suddenly ridiculous, too innocent and girlish under his scrutiny. Heat creeps into my cheeks, betraying my composure.
“Nice dress,” he says, and there's no mockery in his tone, just a note of something like... approval?
“Thanks.” I mumble the word, tugging at the hem of my sundress. “My mom's sick. Vice let me take some time off.”
“Good.” He nods, but there's an edge to his voice that both commands and reassures. Of course, he already knew what was going on – I’m sure Vice told him – otherwise, why would he be at the door right now?
“Who’s at the door?” Mom's voice carries from the living room, soft with the weariness of being ill.
“Someone from work.” I feel Walker's probing gaze on me still as I answer my mom.
“Don't be rude, invite them in!” She sounds stronger now, and annoyed that I’m not using the manners she taught me.
With a reluctant step back, I gesture for him to enter. Our eyes meet again, his lips twitching into a hint of a smile that has my pulse flailing erratically. It’s as if he knows the chaos he's causing inside me, as if he enjoys it.
“Come in,” I say, my voice scraping my throat raw. There’s something so… intimate about him being in my home.
“Thanks.” Walker steps past me, bringing with him a scent of cologne and leather that seems too refined for his rough edges. As he crosses the threshold into the familiar comfort of my home, I wonder what kind of mayhem he's bringing with him. And whether I'm ready for it.
The warmth of my mother's smile feels welcoming, while Rand’s narrowing eyes are a sign he’s already judged Walker and found him wanting. Suspicion is written into his every feature as he takes in Walker's towering frame and unapologetic presence. The air feels statically charged, and I swear the men are drawing an invisible battle line. What else do I expect between my protective younger brother and my intruding boss?
“Next time,” Walker says, and my attention snaps back to him, “you get my permission before taking time off.” His tone isn’t harsh, but it carries an authority I know better than to question.
I swallow hard, acutely aware of Rand's scowl deepening. I've grown accustomed to Walker's direct manner, though it still manages to fluster me at times. “Understood,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel.
“Are you her manager? Boss?” My mom's question is followed by her gaze roving over Walker's casual attire. Jeans cling to his long legs, and the button-up shirt stretches taut across his broad chest and powerful shoulders, hinting at the strength hidden beneath the fabric.
“Boss.” There's a subtle shift in his stance, a silent declaration of his role that I’m not sure is intentional. He’s just intense like that.
He stops for a second, rather than taking a seat like mom offers. “I almost forgot, I'll be back in a moment.” With that, he strides out the door without another word, leaving us exchanging curious glances.
My mom’s chuckle pulls me from my surprise, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “He's good-looking,” she says, a hint of teasing in her tone.
“What an ass,” Rand mutters under his breath, his dislike for Walker as clear as day.
Before we can really talk about him, the sound of the front door opening interrupts us. Walker steps back into view, carrying something that immediately catches my eye—a wooden crate filled with apples, their dull skins telling me they’re fresh, not store-bought.
“I thought you could use these in something,” he says, offering the crate to me.
I blink, momentarily thrown. Does he know about my love for baking? If so, how? Maybe it’s an innocent coincidence, because it's not something I've ever mentioned at work. Sensing my confusion, he adds, “I've seen the treats you bring in for the staff.”
Guilty as charged. “Thank you.” My voice is softer than intended, a flush creeping onto my cheeks. There's a surprising gentleness in his gesture, a side of him that always throws me off.
As I reach for the apples, my arms brushes his hand, sending a jolt of electricity up my arm. For a split second, I allow myself to wonder what it would be like to feel those strong hands elsewhere, tracing paths of heat along my skin. But I push the thought away, reminding myself of the lines we shouldn't cross.
I motion for him to follow me into the kitchen. “Here's where you can put the apples,” I say, motioning to the countertop beside the sink. His hands move with pure power as he sets the crate down, the muscles in his forearms flexing subtly beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt.
And I’m suddenly aware we’re alone. With my pulse going wild, I hurry back out to the living room and safety.
As dusk settles over the house, painting the sky in hues of lavender and rose gold, my mother turns to Walker. “Walker, why don't you stay the night?” There's an edge of hopeful expectation in her tone, one I don’t understand.
“Thank you, Mrs. Anderson,” he says with a smoothness that is at odds with his dominating presence. “I wouldn't want to impose.”
“Nonsense.” She dismisses his words with a wave of her hand. “You can bunk with Isla or take the guest room if things aren't... comfortable between you two yet.” Her eyes twinkle with mischief, leaving me stammering for words, words that refuse to come.
“Mom!” I say, shocked.
But she only chuckles. “Show him around, will you, dear?” she says, oblivious—or indifferent—to the heat creeping up my neck.
