Page 40 of Promised Love

“This is fucking weird.” I rake a hand through my hair, looking up at the ceiling.

“It is,” she replies. “But it doesn’t have to be. You take the bed, Lukas.”

I’m about to protest when she jumps on the couch and lies down, showing me how well she fits there. “This is perfect for me.”

13

AUTUMN

Lukas looks down at me as I settle onto the couch, showing him it’s perfect for me. Once again, I feel the fire in his deep blue eyes.

When we talk, there’s a familiarity in his words, and he doesn’t feel like a stranger because he isn’t. But between those familiar moments, there are gaps where something unfamiliar sizzles between us.

As much as my brain knows that Lukas and I are temporary, my body fails to deny the intensity and attraction. But does he feel the same way about me?

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“Yeah.” I nod and get up. “I’ll get ready in the bathroom. You can take the room.”

Before he can protest, I grab my white and blue pajamas and bolt to the bathroom.

It’s no big deal that you’re spending the night with Lukas. It’s no big deal.

I repeat the words like a mantra.

You’ve known him since you were sixteen.

It doesn’t matter that he’s more handsome than you remember.

As I squeeze out a dollop of my new organic willow bark face wash, I wonder how it is that some men age so well. Like fine whiskey.

Lukas is only thirty-four, for Christ’s sake. He’s no whiskey. He’s more like…a beer—perfect right now.

Or like an ice cream, to be eaten before it melts.

Or like a cake, to be cherished before the crust becomes too hard and loses its gooey deliciousness.

I get ready for bed while lost in thoughts of some of my favorite things: Lukas. Ice cream. Cake. It’s the reason I don’t think about knocking or tapping on the door. Instead, I just rip it open.

And that’s how I end up coming face to face with Lukas Spencer’s naked back.

He’s standing by the side of the bed, facing the table lamp, which is the only light lit in the room. Out of his jeans and wearing gray track pants, he’s balling up a light blue T-shirt. From his tense shoulder muscles, I can tell he’s struggling to put it on with the sling.

But holy crap, it’s an ordeal to tear my gaze away from his defined shoulder blades, bunched muscles, and finally, his tapered waist.

He’s no cake or ice cream.

I don’t know if I made a sound or if it’s my loud breathing that stops Lukas’ fight, but he stills and my breathing comes to a halt.

Make a joke, Autumn. Make a joke.

Jokes are the best way to get out of uncomfortable situations, but when Lukas looks at me over his shoulder, for the love of God, I cannot think of anything funny.

I feel a drop of sweat traveling south from the back of my neck to my spine on this cold winter night, until it escapes into the cotton of my pajamas. The moment stretches with neither of us saying a word. With every passing second, it’s becoming more and more difficult to decide what the right words are anyway.

Sorry, I should have knocked.

Um, do you work out a lot?

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