Page 60 of Bride on the Dotted Line

He’s oiled in sweat, wearing a sleeveless black top and track pants. His muscles bulge from a fresh workout, tattoos winding up his arms. I have the absurd urge to lick them. It’s coupled with the urge to throw my arms around his neck, to ask him about his day, to tease what he’s been thinking out of his head.

I want to. But I don’t.

“Nick,” I say, pushing hair away from my forehead in an attempt to save face. I tap the screen of my phone, turning off the music. “I didn’t think you’d be back so early.”

His throat moves, irises dark as he takes a step closer to me. Here it is: the eye contact, the shivery feeling like he’s daring me to make a move. How is it that he smells sogoodafter being at the gym?

“I got bored,” he says after a moment. “Realized I’d rather be at home.”

I’m probably imagining thewith youat the end of that sentence. My heart skips around my body as he walks into the kitchen, reaching across me to grab a cup, then filling it with water at the sink.

“What are you cooking?” he asks.

“Um,” I say.Eloquent, Sienna.“A recipe my mom sent me. Some kind of stir fry? I don’t know. I just thought that you’ve cooked so much for me …”

“It’s burning.”

“No, it’s—oh my God.”

I rush to the stove, where the food is smoking and spitting, peppers and onions blackening to the bottom of the steel pan. I push the whole thing off the hot element, grimacing.

Nick peeks over my shoulder, gulping his water. “Not a disaster. Turn down the heat, change these vegetables out for the next ones. Stir frying in batches is easiest.” He rumbles a laugh at the sound I make, his breath moving the hair on top of my head. “You can do it, I promise.”

“Don’t you have to go shower or something?”

“I showered at the gym.”

I give him a skeptical look, eyeing his wet hair and shirt, and he glances down at himself.

“Oh, it’s rain. I gave my stuff to John to drive back so I could run home from the gym.”

“Youranhome from the gym? Why?”

His eyes linger on me for a moment, making a thrill fly down my bare arms. “Just pumped from a hard workout, I guess. Not that it’s helping.”

“What’s not helping?”

“Working out.”

“Oh.”

My breathing is shallow as I scrape the cooked vegetables onto a plate, turning down the heat and adding the others into the pan like he advised me. Nick leans against the counter behind me, still drinking his water. Observing. His attention sends tingles across my shoulders, somehow exciting me even more than a physical touch.

Pull it together.

I won’t give any man the satisfaction of flustering me.

I follow his instructions to the end of the recipe, then go up on my tiptoes to grab two empty bowls. When I turn to hand him his portion, he takes it with an enigmatic smile. He stirs the food in the bowl, his attention flitting down my body and back up again. Taking me in—and not trying to hide it.

Who ishe right now? Before Fiji, he’d never be so blatant about checking me out. Not that I’m complaining.

“So.” His voice is deeper than usual. “You’re wearing my shirt.”

Oh.That’swhy he’s looking at me like I’m a bowl of ice cream. “I …” I completely forgot; I’d planned to be long gone by the time he got home. “I am.”

“You look hot in it.”

My pulse pounds, electric. Did he really just say that? Out loud? I’m instantly aware of how close we’re standing, the proximity of his body warming my front while the cooling stove spreads heat across my back.

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