Page 19 of Loving You

None of that should annoy me. He was just being… kind.

Yes, thinking of Eric as kind was a hard pill to swallow, considering our history of poking at each other and bickering over everything. But apparently it was true, judging from the amenities provided in this bathroom alone.

Turned out, underneath that workaholic, grumpy exterior was a man who wanted his guests to feel at home when they stayed here.

Still, I narrowed my eyes around the bedroom as I opened the suitcase he’d so helpfully deposited on the bench at the foot of the bed.

How often did he have guests, anyway? Were they women?

Well… probably not.

If Eric stopped working long enough for a love life, he most likely brought them to his room for a brief tumble. He wouldn’t have them move into the guest room even if it did get serious enough for more than that.

So then, why all the fuss in here?

Finished dressing, I made my way out of the room and padded barefoot into the kitchen. Eric had his back to me, and I felt my jaw drop as he bent to take something out of the oven.

Gone were the stuffy polo and—probably—ironed jeans that he’d worn to his mom’s house, replaced by what must be his version of ratty loungewear. As in, not ratty at all.

Casual, but still perfectly clean and new.

And sexy as hell.

The ass I had full view of was now clad in a very soft-looking pair of black sweatpants, and as he lifted a pan from the oven and set it on the stove, I could see the muscles of his back rippling beneath a charcoal crewneck.

And it wasn’t a basic-ass Hanes undershirt, either. It looked like one of those expensive tees made of fancy Pima cotton or even something with sweat-wicking tech, built for the most rigorous of exercises.

And judging from those muscles… I had a feeling he made a habit of such things.

Which, of course, only made me think aboutotherways he might like to get sweaty, and that part of me needed to sit the hell down right now. Not the time. Also, probably, not the guy.

Girl, this is Eric, remember?

I didn’t know if he sensed my presence or heard my heart pounding at just the sight of him looking so…comfy,but he peeked over his shoulder with a quirk of a brow. “Hey, you’re just in time.”

“For what?”

He gestured with an oven mitt toward the stove. “Food’s ready.”

Idiot. What did you think he meant?

“Right, thanks. You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble, though, I’m not that hungry.”

Almost like he hadn’t heard me, he reached into a nearby cabinet and pulled down a plate, then proceeded to stick a serving spoon into whatever Jenna Walker had made for her brood of ridiculously hot boys and their families that evening.

I was dimly aware of him telling me about something funny that had happened while he was there, but I couldn’t hear him. I was way too focused on the methodical way he’d put a huge portion of food on my plate even though I’d literally just told him I wasn’t hungry.

And, you know, mildly blown away by the fact that a man would dish up a plate with that much food for me after how Cliff—

Nope. Don’t go there, April. Hot guy, giving you food. Think about that instead.

“That’s Sammy for you,” he finished his story at the perfect time to dispel my shitty thoughts, turning to set the plate on one of the maroon placemats that lined the kitchen island between us. When I made no move to sit down, he rested his hands on the black marble and cocked his head. “April.”

“Eric.”

“What are you doing?”

I crossed my arms. “Why is your guest room so nice?”

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