Page 81 of Mended Hearts

Based on the wolfish spark in his eyes when I finally stopped playing chicken and met his gaze, he was scheming up ways to makemehis next meal.

Determined not to squirm, I bit out, “What?”

“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head as he rounded the enormous island.

So that’s what Brexley meant when she wrote that an MMC “prowled,” because holyHawkeye, I felt like prey. Worse yet, the heat between my thighs and the butterflies in my belly said I liked it.

“Then stop staring at me. It’s freaking me out.”

He chuckled—low and sexy—and I hated how badly I wanted to feel it under my fingertips or reverberating through my ribs. This? This was why I didn’t stay for dinner. Or show up for breakfast. Or willingly interact with this man unless we had buffers. AndMatilda Hart, so help me,if you don’t get your head out of academics and come save me?—

“Just… thinking I could get used to coming home to this.”

“A make-shift pizza kitchen?”

A huffed laugh. “To you.”

“Oh.” It was a whisper. A broken exhale that sounded more like a plea than a realization. But it was the most ladylike alternative to the full-on “Are you trying to make me shit a brick?” screaming through my brain. Every muscle in my body locked up as he held my gaze. “That’s kind of a dangerous thing to say to a woman who is… already way too attached to your kids.”

“I just mean… I like you here, Trouble. In my house.” A butterfly-inducing step forward. “Making Nona’s sauce. Barefoot in my kitchen. Singing the music our parents grew up on.”

“Okay,” I hedged, dropping my eyes to the toppings and sliding the bowls around like the order of olives to pepperoni was a matter of national security. The soft creak of the floor beneath his feet told me he was closing the distance, even as my heart skipped a beat. A quick glance toward the dining room confirmed Tillie was still hyper-focused on her homework. As Ollie neared, my stomach folded like the first pancake that inevitably flops when you try to flip it too soon. Blowing out a slow breath, I asked, “But like… do you mean ‘get used to’ in a ‘it’s convenient having me look after your kids’ kind of way, or… a ‘we should pick out curtains’ kind of way?”

“What would you say if I said it was the latter?”

“I’d say nothing’s changed in the last six weeks, and we were pretty clear about no weirdness.”

“And what if I said that was the mistake?”

“Theno weirdnesspolicy?”

He snorted. “The walking away.”

The gold tongs I’d been fiddling with clattered onto the veggie plate as I jerked my face up to his. “Ollie, I have a heart condition, for fuck’s sake.” His chuckle did nothing to soothe the rapid-fire rhythm of my pulse. “You can’t just go around saying shit like that,” I snapped, glancing toward Tillie again, even as the hair on my arms stood up at his proximity.

“Why not?”

“We have a good thing going here.”

“We do. But I gotta be honest, beautiful,” he said, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear—like he didn’t know that gesture was lethal—“I haven’t stopped thinking about that night, Leigh. About what a colossal mistake walking away was.”

“We were kinda interrupted,” I pointed out, relieved I didn’t sound like a breathless idiot, even as my stomach free-fell.

“And I should’ve walked out and said good morning.”

“And gone toe-to-toe with my brother?”

“Worth it.”

“Stupid. The word you’re looking for is stupid. Pax is unbearably protective.”

“And in the last six weeks, I’ve realized fighting with him would’ve been better than carrying this weight.”

“What weight?”

“Regret, Trouble.”

“Regret is for the birds.”

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