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And then he just pulls his hand away and starts to drive. Just like that.
I keep staring.
I’m not sure which is more disconcerting. Him asking about my day or him telling me he finds me sexy in that low voice of his.
He turns on the music and hums along, then sings along.
Badly.
Really, very badly.
He’s goddamn awful, is what I’m saying, but somehow it’s also really charming.
He keeps butchering Coldplay.
I keep looking at him.
And it hits me then—suddenly and loudly, in a way that is impossible to ignore—just how dangerous nice boys can be.
RYKER
Lake tosses his keys into the basket he has by the door, toes off his boots, and hangs his coat on the hook on the wall. I follow him farther into the room. My place is small, but Lake’s is tiny. The room fits a pullout couch, a desk, a dresser, and a minuscule kitchen nook. That’s it. There’s barely any room to move.
“You want something to eat?” he asks.
“I’m good.” I lean against the wall and wait.
He nods toward the couch. “Make yourself at home. I’m gonna grab a quick shower.”
The next twenty minutes is pure torture, listening to the sound of water from the other side of the door and picturing Lake naked.
It gets worse when he comes out dressed in a pair of sweats and nothing else. He stops in the middle of the room and tilts his head to the side.
“You’re still here.”
I frown in confusion.
“Did you want me to leave?”
“No,” he says. “Just surprised you’re not freaking out.”
I let out a soft laugh and drag my fingers through my hair.
“Oh, I was.”
“But you’re still here,” he says. “I honestly didn’t think you would be.”
His hair is still wet, and his shoulders are decorated with droplets of water. I’m suddenly parched.
“You said we’d finish what we started,” I say. “I don’t think we have yet.”
He quirks that damn eyebrow again. “Is that what you want? To finish what we started.”
I have to laugh. I really thought I was being painfully obvious.
Just in case, though…
“Yes. I usually do. Finish what I start. I’d like to keep that habit.”
