Page 51 of Beachside Kisses With My Best Friend

But…I’m not running, either. I’m doing what April suggested, testing the waters, letting the possibilities sit and stay a while before automatically dismissing them. I told him one of my deepest secrets, and he’s still here. In fact, ever since that conversation, he seems to be…pursuing me.

It’s all a bit heady.

Which is why I’m, once again, baking—if one can call Saturday morning pancakes “baking.”

“Lee-Lee, when will breakfast be ready?” Ryder’s head pops up over the kitchen island, where I’m nearly done throwing the batter together and preheating the griddle. He’s in his tight little Superman pajamas, complete with a Velcroed cape. “I’m starving.”

“You are, huh?” I boop him on the head with the clean spatula, which makes him giggle. “Your dad should be home from his run any minute, and then we’ll eat. You can keep watchingPaw Patrolfor now.”

“‘K.” He runs back and tumble-flies over the back of the couch, unpausing the show, which plays at a medium volume.

I roll up the sleeves of my blue hoodie—well, Jordan’s hoodie that I stole in addition to a pair of his flannel pants rolled ten times because I desperately need to do laundry—and stir the batter before opening the fridge for more ingredients, humming thePaw Patroltheme song to myself.

The front door squeaks open, and Ryder says, “Hi, Daddy!”

Jordan’s baritone rumbles, “Morning, bud. Oh, I love this episode.”

“Yup. Marshall’s the bestest pup. Watch how he shoots that water!”

“Love how they’re working together to save the day.”

“Me too.”

Smiling at their natural interaction, I reach for a container of blueberries, a bag of chocolate chips, a can of whipped cream, and a jar of chocolate sauce I made up last night from scratch. “Morning,” I call as I close the fridge door—and nearly have a heart attack.

Because Jordan is standing beside the couch with no shirt on.

Biscuits and gravy. He’s stretching his arm over his chest while watching colorfully clothed dogs on TV, and um, what is happening to my insides? I have seen Jordan in a bathing suit plenty of times. More than I can count. More than I remember.

But this? I’ll never be able to get the image of his smooth, taut skin—just a smattering of dark hair surrounding his well-formed pectorals—out of my brain. His torso is streaked with sweat, joggers slung low on his hips, and his muscles are the perfect balance between ripped beefcake and barely there. Why are my eyes drawn to the veins in his tan forearms as points his elbow toward the sky and stretches his triceps?

The container of blueberries drops from my hands, and I yelp as the fruit scatters all over the floor.

“Whoa there.” Jordan rushes to help as I set the other food on the counter and squat down to scoop berries into the flimsy plastic container.

“Sorry,” I murmur.

“No big deal.” He gently gathers fruit in his hands and helps me refill the container. Despite the sweat, he smells like ocean air and forest. His hand brushes mine as we close the container together. Then our eyes connect, and it’s like he sees me for the first time as his gaze sweeps down over me. His irises seem to snap and darken. “What are you wearing?”

Is it just my imagination, or does his voice go all husky at the question?

I glance down at my sweatshirt. Well,hissweatshirt. “Um, I hope you don’t mind, but almost all of my clothes are dirty, so I rummaged around in your dresser and borrowed these.” And darn it, there’s a splatter of flour on the front. I rub at it furiously. “Sorry, I’ll make sure to clean this before I return it.”

Then I’m breathless as he places his hand over mine, effectively stilling it.

“I don’t mind.” It’s all he says, but the meaning pulses palpable between us.

Not justI don’t mind you borrowing my clothes, but also…I don’t mind your mess.

I glance away, swallow. “Thanks,” I whisper. Then I stand, blueberries in hand, and set them on the island. The batter’s ready so I ladle some onto the greased griddle. The sizzle pops and settles. I tuck an errant strand of hair behind my ear. “This will be ready in about ten minutes if you want to grab a shower before breakfast.” And look at me, I manage to say it all without sounding like a nervous teenager.

“I’m okay.” He hitches a hip against the island and reaches for a stack of mail.

“Oh.” And I can’t help but stare at the contours of his chest—a chest that has been hiding. Or rather, that I’ve never really noticed until now. “All right.”

He peeks up at me, a tiny smile flicking over his mouth, and I avert my eyes back to my pancakes.

“Yikes,” I say, pulling three nearly blackened pancakes off the griddle. Clearly, I wasn’t paying enough attention.Wonder why. “Um, well, if you want to throw a shirt on, I’m sure you’d be more comfortable.”

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