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His turn to pause. He looks down at the scissors then back up at me with an amused smirk. Yes, a real smirk that makes his gray eyes glitter. My heart bursts into a thousand fireworks. It happened! It really happened! “I told you you were scared of me.”
“No surprise visitors last night, then?”
“No. Maybe even the Van der Boors men are too scared to enter this neighborhood,” he says sourly.
He scoops up the pile of leaves from the floor and brushes past me into the kitchen, sending an electric shock through my body when he touches my shoulder.
“You seem to know a lot about plants. Do you garden?” I ask, following in his trail.
He grunts in response, tossing the leaves in the trash. Then, he leans back against the kitchen counter, eyes scorching over me. I struggle to look anywhere but his carved abs, then the ravine that guides the eye down to the bulge in his pants. I’m hot and flustered at the memory ofthatdigging into ass last night.
Before I turn into a blubbering mess, I press on. “So why plants? You don’t strike me as a gardener.”
“Because they don’t ask questions,” he deadpans in response.
I roll my eyes. “Of course. Here’s a question you might actually like—coffee?”
“Yes.”
I arch an eyebrow.
“Please,” he adds, lips twitching.
He watches me grab two mugs, then the tub of coffee powder. “Sorry,” I garble, “We don’t have any fancy machines here, so I hope hot water and instant is okay.”
“I’m sure I’ll survive.”
As I stir in the coffee, my mind rattles for something to say, but I stop myself before any more small talk babbles out of my mouth. It fascinates me how this man can be so comfortable with silence.
I hand him a mug with trembling hands.
“Thank you,” he says pointedly, eyes twinkling. He takes a sip and adds, “Tastes just like Starbucks.”
“Very funny.”
I lean back against the counter — the one farthest anyway from the almost-naked god looming in my kitchen and curl my hands around the warm mug.
Eventually, an unexpected question slashes through the silence.
“You’re in danger here, aren’t you?”
Looking up from the murky water, I lock eyes with him. “I—”
“And not just from the South Africans.”
His gaze is fueled with fire, flames bright and unwavering. It coaxes the truth from my lips.
My voice barely crosses the room. “Yes.”
He nods, slowly, absorbing the three-letter word that holds so much power. Then, he puts the coffee cup on the counter and silently crosses the kitchen. I stop breathing as he leans over me, putting both his palms on the counter on either side of me.
My god, he’s so close. So close I could reach out and cut myself those sharp cheekbones, or run a finger over the curve of his cupid’s bow.
When he speaks, his voice is low and smoky. “Spend one month with me.”
“E-Excuse me?” I can’t handle him being this close. I’m getting high off his pheromones.
“One month. With me.” His gaze lowers to my lips, and his Adam’s apple bobs in the trunk of his throat. “No strings attached. Once the month is up, I’ll relocate you with a fake ID somewhere far away from Philly, away from whatever low-level gangster shit you’ve got yourself involved in. No questions. No strings attached.”
