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Had that always happened? I’d worn this outfit before and never noticed that.
I pivoted again and put on a sweatshirt that went to my knees.
The house was silent, but it was early so that made sense. It was still warm out and the windows were open in the front room. The soft scent of honeysuckle filled the air.
It was going to be a perfect day. And night.
I entered the kitchen to find Merrick standing where he usually sat with his laptop. He wore a pair of casual Chinos and a button down, rolled to the elbows. There was a bowl of fresh apples from the local orchard before him.
When I entered, he looked up and his face broke into a smile.
“Happy birthday, Clara,” he said, holding out his arm.
My chest filled with warmth. My father had never celebrated birthdays so I hadn’t had one until I was eighteen. But after that, Merrick spoiled me like a princess every single year.
I went to him, letting him pull me in for a brief hug.
Heat, a firm chest, the scent of oak.
Then he drew back and wiped his hands. “I’m making your favorite.”
“Pwdin eva?”
It was a Welsh classic, rich and crumbly like cobbler. Best served hot with a generous scoop of vanilla ice cream.
“The very one.”
“You’re amazing,” I breathed, ducking past him to take the pour-over from the upper shelf.
It was out of my reach. I gripped the countertop and hoisted a knee up, straining to reach the glass funnel.
“You can ask for help, Clara,” said Merrick, amused.
I slid back down, my feet hitting the floor. He appeared at my side, his hand brushing my back, and retrieved the funnel. I gripped it, feeling suddenly on edge as he searched for the strainer.
My eyes fell down his lean body to the place where his shirt met his pants. Or rather, where it was supposed to. Instead, there was a strip of skin visible.
Tanned, smooth.
A sharp V disappearing below his belt.
A trail of short, dark hair going up to his navel.
He shifted and the V flexed and his shirt slid down to cover it. My stomach twisted and I tore my eyes away. It was good I’d worn the sweatshirt because for some reason, my nipples were rubbing against my bralette.
Hard and oddly sensitive.
I swallowed past the dryness in my throat and spun on my heel. Clutching the funnel in one had, I searched for a paper towel to wipe it with even though it was clean.
Feeling like a newborn colt on wobbly legs, I attempted to pull myself together. Maybe I was just ovulating and that was why his presence felt like someone had poured hot water down my pants. Mentally, I calculated my cycle.
No, I was about to start my period in a week.
So it wasn’t that.
“Alright,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll finish breakfast and you make the coffee. Think you can handle that?”
“Yes,” I said quickly.
