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“Had to guess at your size.”
That’s a loaded statement.
Finished with his task, he moves through the far side of the kitchen and disappears down the hall. A moment later, he’s back with a bag from a familiar boutique. I peek inside.
Leggings. A sweatshirt. Shoes.
All similar to items I have at home. Things I would have chosen myself.
The sizzling sensation turns to an all-out wildfire. I don’t know how he knew or how he made it happen, but I’m in awe of the way he pays attention.
How can one outfit make me feel so seen?
“Be right back,” I say, stomach twisting.
The urge to hug him, to press a kiss against his freshly shaven cheek, is almost more than I can stand. I literally feel hollow inside from the restraint it takes.
Turning on my heel, I head to the closest bedroom and close the door behind me.
Alex Hunt is a good guesser. The leggings glide over my hips. The sweatshirt is uber-soft inside and oversized with a slouchy, off-the-shoulder design, and the slip-on sneakers hug my feet perfectly. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he had a peek in my closet.
Unfortunately, I’m stuck with last night’s panties for the time being.
I fold Alex’s t-shirt as I exit the bedroom. He’s perched on a bucket in the living room. God, he’s too good to be true. Looking so big and bad in the soft light. I want to curl up in his lap and never leave.
Danger. Danger.
I need to focus on the plan. Damage control.
What plan? my heart asks.
He glances up, those deep, dark chocolate eyes taking me in in a single sweep.
The awkwardness slides away because, as usual, I feel pulled to him. Pulled. Calmed. Lighter.
He takes the shirt from my hands and drops it onto the pile of lumber.
“Everything fit?”
“Perfectly. Thank you.” Thank goodness the sweatshirt is thick and soft because without a bra and being so close to this man, my nipples are standing at attention. They’re so tight it’s almost painful. “I feel like that’s all I’ve been saying to you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I guess I should put on my big girl panties and check my phone.”
That’s LaShonda’s favorite phrase, and I stole it freshman year. Somehow, it makes adulting a little easier. But I really don’t want to face the music yet.
As I start to turn away, Alex reaches for my wrist. His hand is so big, strong, and decadently warm.
He gives me a tug, and I topple into his lap.
My insides go wild, nerve endings lighting up like a Christmas tree. How did he know what I wanted?
What I needed?
A few more minutes without having to let the outside world into our bubble.
“The guy at the auction. How do you know him?”
