Page 29 of So Bad It Must Be Good

How Kayla Gallagher wanted to make him forget that promise to himself was beyond his ability to reason through.

He pushed it all away. Maybe there’d been a moment. Maybe there hadn’t. It didn’t matter because he wasn’t playing a game. He was a person. She was a person. They liked each other’s company and she had the oddest interest in his wood . . .

Woodworking. Woodworking.

He shook his head to try and get his brain to clatter into functioning in its usual, reasonable by-the-book way. He lit candles and pulled out the little backpacking stove he’d never actually used because he was always too busy to actually go backpacking.

He went to the sink and filled the little camping pot with water. It would be something of a process without electricity, but it was better than letting his thoughts dwell too much on wet Kayla.

“You don’t make it with milk?”

He turned to face her in the entrance of his kitchen. She wore one of his T-shirts, just a plain navy blue that seemed to make her skin glow. Or maybe that was the candlelight. She had some of his sweatpants on, clearly tied as tight as possible and still a little baggy on her and definitely too long.

He could spend eternity watching her in his clothes.

“Uh, no, princess. When you’re watching your pennies, you make hot chocolate with water.” He walked over to the little backpacking stove he’d set on his counter and tried to look like he knew what he was doing.

“I paid you ten dollars for that bear,” she said, moving next to him in the kitchen. “You could buy a gallon of milk or two. But watery cocoa is fine, as long as there are plenty of marshmallows. And if you tell me I can drink it without marshmallows, I’m going to have to call you out.”

“Call me out?” he replied, his lips curving in spite of himself. She said the strangest things sometimes.

“Like a duel,” she replied, matter-of-factly. The corners of her generous mouth quirked, though she clearly fought valiantly for a serious expression.

“And how does one duel in the twenty-first century?” Liam asked, stirring chocolate mix into one mug and then the next.

“Hm.” She tapped a finger to her chin as though considering. “Cage fighting?”

He barked out a laugh. “I am fresh out of cages.”

“You better have marshmallows then.”

It was his turn to fight for a serious expression when all his mouth wanted to do was grin at her.

Oh, that’s not all your mouth wants to do where she’s concerned. He turned to the pantry, as much to keep his mind off his dick as to get the bag of marshmallows he hoped he had somewhere.

He rummaged around until he found a half-eaten bag in the back. He gave them a test squeeze, happy to find them not stale, then turned back to her.

He was never quite ready for that punch, no matter how many times in the past few days he’d turned to find her in his house, in his space. It was a jolt every time. A little zap of electric current, like touching an exposed wire.

“Marshmallows,” he managed, lamely holding out the bag.

She pulled her bottom lip through her teeth, slowly and very, very distractingly, and then on a deep breath she moved toward him.

She took the bag and then set it down on the counter. She took a deep breath, odd and out of place, as though she had to build up the courage to drink some hot chocolate, which didn’t make any sense—

Then she stepped closer. Close enough that their toes were practically touching, close enough that she had to tilt back her head to meet his gaze. Close enough that if he didn’t meet her gaze he could see the faint points of her nipples through the thin fabric of his T-shirt that she wore.

She stood there, close, her breathing a little shallow and her hands moving out as though to touch him, then falling abruptly to her sides, then inching closer again.

He was rendered speechless and possibly motionless for a few seconds. She was standing practically pressed against him, apparently nervous and uncertain and what else could she be possibly thinking but . . .

It baffled him that she’d have any reason to be nervous about making a move on him. Didn’t she know he’d fall at her feet a million times over?

If she didn’t, then he supposed it was his job to assure her of it. He was a fixer after all.

He cupped her cheek, letting his fingertips explore the cool, soft texture of her skin. He stepped closer, widening his stance so that she fit against him, her legs between his, her chest against his.

His body thrummed with that current, that zip of life and power and spark. He lowered his mouth, slowly, giving her all the chances in the world to—not retreat exactly. His hold on her face wasn’t going anywhere, but she had the chance to say something, to ward him off.

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