He scrubs a hand down his face. “Remind me later to question your taste in TV shows.”
“You weren’t questioning it last night when we were yelling answers atJeopardy.”
His brows hike north. “You were naked and straddling me, Cami.”
“Right. And we bothfinishedwith a high score.” I kiss his cheek. “Don’t forget the fur babies.”
Inside Millie’s house, the cool air slaps the sunand sinoff my skin.
I tug at the hem of my dress, heart fluttering, head light, heat still rushing through me from what almost happened.
Armed with a comically large knife, Millie stands in the kitchen, slicing watermelon, humming to a tune only she seems to know. Margo and Elena are unpacking grocery bags nearby, their laughter floating like background music.
Millie glances up as I cross the threshold, one knowing brow arched in a way that saysI know exactly what you were doing. “Well, well,” she says, slicing clean through the melon’s rind. “Didn’t mean to interrupt anything…private.”
My cheeks feel hot. “We were just?—”
“Sweetheart,” she cuts in, “if you’re about to sugarcoat what our eyes can never unsee, at least take a sip of wine first.” She nods toward the counter where three glasses are already half-filled with something crisp and cold. “Hydration before useless denial.”
Margo snorts as she passes me a glass. “She’s got a point. We saw your R-rated beach matinee from the driveway.”
“Oh, come on! That was a solid PG-13,” Elena adds, grinning. “They were still in their swimsuits.”
I swallow a mouthful of wine, throat dry from more than the sun. Nothing like getting roasted by the Trouble Tripletsto remind me I’ve officially entered myplaying house with the hottie next door and pretending it’s casualera.
Behind me, the thump against the porch door signals Knox is wrangling kittens—and what’s left of his pride.
Millie tosses a hunk of watermelon into a bowl. “Let your man know the grill’s ready for him. Steaks and cobs aren’t gonna cook themselves.”
“He’s not my—” I stop, because what’s the effing point?
Heismine.
For now.However long now lasts.
Knox stalks in like Hulk on a mission: playpen under one arm, fur babies propped against his chest.
Never fathomed kitten-dad mode would become my new definition of hot.
He looks completely in his element. Protective. Reliable. The man you’d trust with more than just strays—kittens or hearts alike.
Shadow meows in protest, her tiny face smushed against his shirt, frowning like she’s ready to file a formal complaint.
“I’ll take the babies,” I say, reaching for them with a grin that lingers longer than it should. “You set up the playpen? Then do something sexy with tongs,Mr. Beach Temptation.”
“You started it,Ms. Can’t-Keep-Her-Hips-to-Herself,” he volleys back, grin smug enough to warrant a fan.
Millie, who apparently misses nothing, lifts her carving knife without even looking up. “Save that sizzle for the steaks.”
An hour later on the deck, we all settle in around the picnic-style table, the late afternoon sun casting yellow streaks across the wood.
Paper plates are stacked high with grilled corn, buttery rolls, and thick, juicy steaks fresh off the grill, all served with a proud glint in Knox’s eye.
The Trouble Triplets raise their glasses like it’s happy hour on a yacht, and I swear Margo winks at me over the rim of her wineglass.
Millie lifts her glass a little higher. “To perfectly grilled steaks and a little summer romance to spice things up.”
Knox chuckles, swirling the wine in his glass. “Let’s not start rumors.”
