Page 39 of The Best Friend Power Play

Taking the laundry off the line.

And he's…oh, my…he's shirtless.

My head turns of its own volition, possibly in slow motion, as I take him in.

He may have a bad hip, but that doesn't mean he's not built like a Greek god, with broad shoulders, massive biceps, sculpted chest, and a tight set of abs that make no sense given how much pasta he eats.

He's tucked his T-shirt into the back of his black shorts and is wearing a lime-green baseball cap, backward, and a matching pair of lime-green Nike Air Jordans. His smooth olive skin glistens in the light.

With AirPods in his ears, he's listening to music. And I know it's music and not a podcast or an audiobook because he's mouthing the lyrics and moving.

No. Not moving.

Dancing.

Sexy dancing.

Sexy, masculine dancing, which I'd normally think is a contradiction in terms unless I was witnessing it right now with my very own eyes.

He unpegs one end of the bedsheet and throws the pegs into the clothespin bag like he's a basketballer making a shot. Then he shimmies his way down to the other side and throws in a few fluid hand gestures before unhooking the other side of the sheet. He does a two-step shuffle back, sings something into his imaginary mic, then proceeds to slide the sheet off the line in one graceful motion.

My heart gallops in my chest, and I jolt back from the window so fast I almost trip over my feet.

I yank a new spoon out of the drawer and feed myself some more sauce because this is one of those I need delicious food situations.

I close my eyes, but all I can taste is the delicious sauce, all I can see is how low those shorts hang off his narrow hips, and all I can imagine is running my hands all over that smooth, glistening torso—and nope.

I open my eyes and shake my head.

This is not helping. In fact, this is the opposite of helping.

Frustrated, and with my skin vibrating in a way I'm not used to, I toss the spoon into the sink and decide to get changed out of my work clothes. Yeah. Maybe a new outfit will diffuse whatever is going on with me.

Culver has already brought in some of the laundry. It's arranged in two piles on the sofa—my stuff and his.

I scoop up my pile of clothes and carry them to my room.

It's only once I throw the clothes onto my bed that I notice they're not as sorted as I thought they were. A few of his things are mixed in with mine.