Something’s wrong.
I know it before I even open my eyes.
A high pitch warning going off in an endless shriek that pulls me from sleep.
There’s a weight in the air—thick and bitter—that scratches at the back of my throat and makes my nose wrinkle. Not the soft, warm scent of detergent and cologne that lulled me to sleep last night. This is something darker. Smokier.
Something is on fire.
My eyes snap open.
I jolt upright in bed, coughing once, then twice. The scent hits harder now. Smoke—undeniable and aggressive. Not the faint kind from a blown-out candle. Theoh shit, the house is on firekind.
I throw the blanket off, stumble to my feet, and rush for the door, nearly tripping over my duffel bag on the way out. Myheart is hammering now, fully awake and fueled by panic. I don’t even think to grab a robe.
The hallway is hazy—soft gray streaks wafting through the morning light. Somewhere up ahead, there’s the unmistakablewhooshof a fire extinguisher being triggered and a string of muttered curses.
I follow the sounds, barefoot and wide-eyed, and round the corner into the kitchen and promptly stop dead in my tracks.
Jaxon Kane. Shirtless. Barefoot. Holding a bright red fire extinguisher like it’s an extension of him.
The stove is aliteral inferno. Orange flames dance up the backsplash, licking toward the ceiling as smoke billows upward. He sprays the extinguisher at the base of the flames, eyes narrowed in concentration, face flushed with effort. Muscles tense, jaw tight, hair a mess.
He looks like a firefighter calendar shot gone very, very wrong.
He finally gets the fire under control—foam now coating half the kitchen—and lowers the extinguisher with a groan, panting, covered in a sheen of sweat and disaster.
He looks up, breathing hard. His hair is a mess. His tattoos glisten. His eyes meet mine—and even through the haze, I swear I see amusement crack the surface of his exasperation.
Then he nods toward the smoldering mess behind him and mutters, “Well... breakfast is ready.”
I blink at the scorched scene in front of me.
There’s nothing salvageable. Not a single pan or piece of food that doesn’t look like it crawled out of hell.
A laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it—half amusement, half disbelief. “What was this supposed to be?”
Jaxon steps back and gestures vaguely at the wreckage, like he’s unveiling a masterpiece. “Eggs?” he says, hopeful.
I giggle again, covering my nose as he moves to the far wall and pushes open what I thought were just floor-to-ceiling windows. But they glide outward on hidden hinges, turning into massive glass doors that disappear into the wall. Suddenly, the smoke has somewhere to go—and the balcony becomes part of the living room, flooding the space with fresh air and sunlight.
“I’ve never in my life seen anyone catch eggs on fire,” I say, still staring at the battlefield of his stove.
He shrugs, not even a little embarrassed. “I’m a man of many talents.”
His eyes drop, trailing down the length of me. I suddenly remember I’m standing in nothing but an oversized t-shirt—no bra, no pants, and definitely no defense against the heat in his gaze. The air between us tightens, charged with something I know better than to touch but can’t help breathing in.
His brow arches. “Turn around.”
“No.”
This isn’t just any shirt and we both know it. I suddenly want to kick myself in the ass for wearing it but I didn’t even think of it. Because I sleep in this shirt more than anything else.
He steps forward slowly, a predatory glint in his eye. “Turn around, or I swear to God I’ll force-feed you the charcoal eggs.”
I back up a step, eyes narrowing. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
