Even the damn birds have opinions about my trust issues.
Knox’s front door comes into view just past a cluster of salt-worn hydrangeas, their blooms faded but still standing tall against the briny air.
I climb the porch steps, nerves hitching with every one.
What if he’s rethinking our kiss already?
What if last night was just heat and timing and loneliness, and this afternoon he’s full of regret?
Hand hovering near the door, I pause, gathering the nerve to knock.
Inside, something filters through, low and melodic. Is he…singing?
Shoulders relaxed, I draw in a breath and knock twice, immediately second-guessing it.
Was my knock too soft?
Silence stretches long enough for panic to bloom.
Maybe he heard me and has chosen toignore it.
Head lowered, I step back, ready to abort this whole plan and pretend I never walked over here—when the door swings open.
Knox stands there in a button-down and jeans, flip-flops, and a dish towel slung over one shoulder. And lord help me, he looks domestic and dangerous in ways that make breathing optional.
His hair’s tousled, and he smells like grilled food and clean skin. Ordinary things, made suddenly unforgettable.
“Hey”—his eyes flick over me, quick, but not subtle—“you’re right on time.”
I swallow hard, my brain stalling like it forgot I’m supposed to be playing cool.
“Kitten wrangler reporting for duty,” I manage, hoping that line sounds composed enough to cover how my overthinking nearly sent me sprinting back home.
His lips curve, teasing and deliberate. “Good. We’ve had a…situation.
My brows lift. “A situation?”
“They staged a protest. Refused to fall asleep unless their blanket was warmed in the dryer. Stripe cried like someone stole his inheritance.”
“Brats.”
“More likespoiledbrats.” He chuckles, stepping aside so I can slip past. “Also, I might’ve promised them you were bringing snuggles.”
“Setting the bar pretty high.” I brush by him, surprised I pulled that off with sass, although the flutter in my chest tells a different story.
Knox’s eyes skate over me like he’s trying not to grin.
“I grilled something for lunch.” He gestures toward the deck. “Figured you might be hungry.”
“You cooked?” I tease, trailing behind him. He’s humming again, proof Ididcatch him singing.
“I cook when the mood hits.” He glances back with a smirk. “Or when there’s company worth feeding.”
I roll my eyes, but the flutter’s back. Stronger now.
The kitchen is warm, rich with the scent of smoke, spice, and something tangy that tightens my stomach in anticipation. A covered platter rests on the counter beside a bottle of sparkling water, two glasses already beading with condensation.
“Where’s the crew?” I turn slightly, thinking I might’ve walked right past them.
