Page 33 of The Hearts We Fumble
I haven’t been around enough to notice their coming and going schedules. For all I know, they could be asleep or relaxing inside, and they’re about to be disturbed by my impulsive ass.
The blinds shift, a shadow moving behind them. Then the deadbolt clicks, and the door swings open.
And suddenly, every thought in my head vanishes.
Because Zane is standing shirtless in front of me.
My mouth parts, but no words come out as my eyes drop, against my better judgment, to his bare chest—the sculpted ridges of muscle, the faint trail of ink peeking from beneath his sweatpants, the way those black joggers hang low enough on his hips to destroy my peace.
Oh God.
My stomach knots, panic tightening in my ribs as my brain catches up to the very real possibility that I’ve just interrupted something.
I force my gaze up, but my voice betrays me, blurting out the first thought that crashes through my head.
“What the hell are you doing?” I shout.
Zane’s lips twitch, like he’s amused. But his voice is low, rough around the edges.
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that? You’re the one banging on my door, shouting at me.”
I shift, craning my neck past him, searching for any sign of another woman inside.
He follows my gaze, and just like that, his smirk disappears.
With a slow exhale, he pushes the door open wider in a silent challenge. “There’s no one here, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
My pulse kicks up, but I keep my expression carefully blank.
“If you want to come in, you’re welcome to. Or you can stand out here and yell at me from my front step.”
I hesitate for only a second before brushing past him, my shoulder grazing the heat of his bare chest as I step inside.
From down the hall, I hear the faint rush of water. The realization hits me all at once.
He was about to take a shower.
Zane doesn’t say a word as he strides across the room and disappears into the bathroom.
The water shuts off and a few seconds later, Zane emerges—his hair tousled, like he’d run a hand through it in frustration. His broad chest is bare as he tugs a T-shirt over his head.
I school my face into neutral indifference, but something inside me twists with disappointment.
I barely fight the urge to let my gaze linger, to appreciate the cut of his muscles, the way his stomach flexes with every movement, taut and effortless. And then his head pops through the collar, and the cotton material covers his body, snapping me out of whatever haze I’d slipped into.
Why do I wish he hadn’t put it on?
Nope. Scratch that. I’m glad he did.
The last thing I need is another distraction from the very real reason I’m standing in his damn living room.
The scent of pine and cedar hits my senses, but beneath it is something unmistakably Zane—familiar, like every stupid memory I’ve tried to erase but never really could.
Pushing the thought away, I lift my chin, bracing myself as he crosses his arms over his chest.
“What’s going on? Is everything okay?”
“No, everything is not okay,” I snap before I can soften the blow, and his brows draw together.
