CHAPTER 3
NOVA
He shows up at exactly 0900 hours. No earlier. No later. Which means he’s punctual when he wants to be. That alone would’ve impressed me if I weren’t too busy pretending I’m not watching him through the narrow slit of my window blinds.
Kaz is shirtless. Of course he is.
He’s got a bucket of paint in one hand, a brush in the other, and a tool belt slung low on his hips that I’m almost certain violates some sort of Alliance dress code. The porch already looks cleaner just from him standing on it, the way his body casts golden light into the space like a second sunrise. His scales shimmer with every shift of movement, like molten coins under the Barakkus sun.
And I hate that I notice. Worse, I hate that I enjoy it.
I try to return to my datapad, but I can’t focus on reports when a walking sin is outside my quarters, humming off-key and stretching his arms like he’s being paid in flexing rights.
I cave.
Two minutes. That’s how long I let myself watch. Long enough to memorize the way his back ripples as he reaches for the eaves, muscles coiling under gold. Long enough to regretthat stupid bet and the way I said “shirtless optional” like I wasn’t daring him. Long enough to admit—to myself—that I wanted this.
But I can’t keep staring. I’m not some adolescent intern with a crush. I’m the lead instructor. This is beneath me.
Still… hedidearn that lemonade.
I make it from scratch—none of the reconstituted stuff they push in the mess. Squeeze the juice by hand, ice from the cooling unit, sugar measured just right. Because if I’m going to break a dozen professional boundaries in one afternoon, I might as well do it with class.
I open the door like I don’t care. Like my pulse isn’t stuttering.
Kaz turns, brush mid-stroke, and grins. “Ma’am.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t start.”
“I haven’t said a word.”
“Your face is loud enough.”
He leans on the railing, his smirk smug and effortless. “You here to inspect my trim job? I went with eggshell, just like you asked. Though I think sunset gold would’ve matched my?—”
“I will throw this lemonade at your head,” I warn, holding out the glass.
“Is that a threat or a gift?”
“Depends on how fast you take it.”
He reaches for it, fingers brushing mine in the exchange. Static shoots up my arm, curls in my spine. I look away too fast.
“I didn’t expect you to actually show,” I admit, sitting on the porch steps.
Kaz drops beside me like he belongs there. “I said I would. I might be a cocky ass, but I keep my word.”
“You are a cocky ass.”
He raises his glass. “To truth in advertising.”
I snort despite myself. The lemonade is tart, cold, perfect. He sips it like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.
“You make this?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Damn. That’s... unexpected.”
