Page 30 of Exes and Oh Hell No

Crossing my arms, I lift my chin defiantly. “Be reasonable. Why would anyone try something in broad daylight with a house full of contractors?”

Instead of answering, he shoves his sweatshirt at me. “Put this on since you were too stubborn to grab a coat.”

His gaze flicks down to my plaid pajama pants, his lips pressing into a tight line. “At least you put pants on.”

I look down at my legs, then back at him.

His expression is unreadable, but there’s something simmering in his eyes.

Disappointment?

Is he mad I’m wearing pants?

I bite my lip to keep from smiling and duck my head, pulling his sweatshirt on.

The warmth of his body heat still clings to the fabric, and the second it surrounds me, I melt.

Admit it. You didn’t grab a coat on purpose.

You wanted his hoodie, knowing he’d give it to you.

When he leans over, double-checking my seatbelt, I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with his scent like a lunatic.

As soon as the passenger door shuts, I exhale a quiet sigh, watching him round the vehicle.

I was falling apart ten minutes ago.

Now, I feel safe.

And it’s all because of Ford.

He climbs inside, and the engine rumbles to life.

I can’t help but check out his profile as he backs out of the driveway.

I rub my fingers over my pajama pocket, fixating on insignificant shit, like how they are the best invention ever, to avoid thinking about what actually matters.

Like the rock.

The note.

Or how Ford fucking yummy-as-sin Brooks is sitting next to me, radiating protectiveness and fury in equal measure.

I glance at him, the glow of the dashboard lights casting his face in sharp lines.

His expression is unreadable, but the tension rolling off him is thick and palpable.

He’s stewing, barely keeping it together, his fingers flexing against the steering wheel like he’s imagining wrapping them around someone’s neck.

I shouldnotfind that sexy.

But I do.

I swallow hard, forcing my eyes forward.

I’m not looking at his chiseled, ridiculously muscular, abs-for-days, gray-sweatpants-wearing self.

I’m not looking.

---