Flustered wasn’t even the right word as my mind raced with all sorts of future images of us at his cabin, shopping at the small grocery store together, waking up morning after morning together…
“You’re good,” I said, tugging my sweater sleeve over my hand, trying to sound casual.
“Am I? Did it get in your head just a little bit?” He squeezed his thumb and index finger together, and I chuckled.
“Not at all. It just means that I can get into pajamas and recover from the blizzard of the century.”
He chuckled. “Pajamas, huh? Didn’t realize this wasthatkind of dinner.”
“Relax,” I said, trying and failing not to smile. “It’s strictly flannel and comfort food. Not negligées and chocolate strawberries.”
“Flannel’s my favorite,” he murmured, and I could hear the smirk in his voice.
My stomach flipped. Not helpful.
I turned away, pretending to fuss with the grocery bag Lydia had dropped off earlier. Anything to avoid the way Drew was looking at me. He had this way about him sometimes, a look…like I’d just walked into his favorite dream.
But I cleared my throat and straightened. All would be fine. This was just dinner.
The apartment, at least, was working in my favor. Lydia had gone full-on Christmas explosion when she redecorated. Twinkle lights draped across every surface, pine garlands around the windows, a tiny fake tree glowing in the corner. The place smelled like cinnamon, pinecones, and cozy domestic bliss, which was disorienting, given that my apartment was about as boring and boxy as they came.
It was adorable. And tiny. Which suddenly became a problem.
Because as I looked around the open layout with the bed tucked against one wall and the kitchenette along the other, it dawned on me:it’s a studio.
Meaning there was no private place to change unless Drew turned around and stared at the wall.
And Drew Benedict had the patience of a golden retriever at a steakhouse.
I turned to find him unwinding his scarf, snow melting into his hair, his flannel still dusted with white. He was pulling off his cap, shaking out his dark hair, when I blurted, “You need to sit on the couch.”
He blinked. “Okay?”
“And don’t look behind you. Like, at all.”
He grinned, instantly catching on. “You’re changing, aren’t you?”
“Maybe,” I said, backing toward the dresser. “And before you say anything…just don’t. Just sit. Face the wall. Be normal.”
“Being normal’s never been my strong suit,” he said, but he did as I asked, plopping onto the couch and stretching out like he owned the place.
I pointed a finger. “No peeking.”
“Okay, but,” He turned his head slightly, a teasing glint in his eyes. “You know I’ve seen you naked before, right?”
My jaw dropped. “Drew!”
“What? Just stating a fact.”
“You’re not even in this orbit!”
He laughed, low and easy, and the sound rolled through the small apartment.
And damn it, the way he said it all soft, teasing, and confident, did something traitorous to my insides.
Because yes, he had seen me naked.
Six times, in fact.
