She searched his face and hurried to say, “He’s fine. He just…saw your truck outside.”
When he exhaled, his breath plumed out on the cold air.
“He was worried about you sleeping out here.”
Her words sent a lump into his throat.
Her face was tipped up to his, and damn if the smell of her skin didn’t still linger in his head even though it’d been months.
Exhaustion softened her features. “Come inside, Vander.”
He blinked once. “Summer—”
“It’s too cold to stay out here overnight.”
“I’m fine.”
“It’s freezing out here.” As if the chill finally wiped away the heat lingering from her own warm covers, she shivered.
He almost argued again, but she stepped closer and lowered her voice.
“You can watch the cameras from the app, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then come inside.” Before he could respond, she turned away and headed back to the warm little duplex.
Toward the light she always left on in the living room…the one that helped him see the flare of her eyes as he touched her in ways that made her gasp.
His chest squeezed.
She reached the door and held the screen open for him. He jogged forward to catch it and slipped inside. Holding his key fob toward the truck, he clicked the locks and then locked the door, checking every one thoroughly.
Warm air hit him, bringing the smell of cleaner and tomato sauce lingering from their humble supper. Ben’s coloring books spread across the coffee table beside toy cars and crayons. A pair of small sneakers were kicked off near the couch.
Their home. Not fancy or magazine-ready, but lived in.
Perfect.
Summer eyed him from a few feet away as he quietly removed his boots near the entry rug.
“Ben went back to sleep,” she whispered.
He nodded.
She moved around the living room gathering blankets from a basket beside the couch while he stood awkwardly near the armchair they’d had sex on—twice—feeling entirely too big for the small space.
He realized what she was doing and stepped farther into the room. “You don’t have to make a bed.”
“I’m not letting you be uncomfortable in my house.” She turned her head toward the chair as if memories of her straddling him—riding him—flooded her memory too.
She fluffed a pillow against the couch arm, spread out a blanket with a soft domestic ease that hit him hard. Then she disappeared down the hall and returned with another quilt folded in her arms.
“One blanket was enough.”
“The living room’s drafty.”
He reached to take the blanket, careful not to touch her because he didn’t trust himself to stop. “Thanks.”
