Page 93

On the counter, on the left side, there's a shelf that's been cleared. Wiped down. Empty.

Next to it, still in the package, is a toothbrush.

Purple. The exact purple as the one I have at home.

I stand there in a borrowed T-shirt that hits me at the knees and I stare at a four-dollar toothbrush until my eyes sting, and then I get furious at myself, and then I brush my teeth.

The kitchen smells like coffee.

Gage is at the sink with his back to me, and he isn't wearing a shirt again. Damn, he’s so hot.

I just stare at him. There's a shoulder blade situation happening. I take my time perusing his tattoos that wrap around both arms and climb over one side of his back, black and dense. The scar over his shoulder is paler than the rest of him and longer than I thought.

He turns around.

I don't look away fast enough. I don't look away at all, in fact, which is a choice my brain makes without consulting me.

One corner of his mouth moves up and his right eyebrow goes up. He is definitely learning how to smile more.

"Morning."

"Don't you dare."

"Didn't say anything."

"You said morning like it had a subtitle."

He hands me a mug. Cream, no sugar, exactly the way I take it, because of course.

I take a sip and point the mug at his chest. "Is this a shifter thing?"

"Is what a shifter thing?"

"The whole..." I gesture my hand in a circle in front of his chest. It covers a lot of ground. "The no shirt thing. Do Alpha wolves just do push-ups all day? Is there a schedule? Do you have a guy?"

"A guy?"

"A trainer. A regimen. Something."

Gage chuckles and leans back against the counter and folds his arms. The folding does not help my situation.

"You want the schedule."

"I want to know if it's earned or if it's cheating."

"It's cheating," he says.

I laugh into my coffee.

"But I'd do the push-ups." He looks at me over the rim of his own mug, and his voice drops half a register. "If you were watching."

The refrigerator door blows open.

It swings so hard the handle punches a dent in the counter and everything on the top shelf goes over. A carton of eggs. A jar of mayonnaise, which does not survive. Cold air rolls across the floor in a white sheet and every bottle in the door rattles like teeth.

We both look at it.

"That was me again, right?" I ask.