A rush of heat washed through me once more, and I closed my eyes, wishing he was still in here with me, glaring at me through the steam, a storm brewing in his intense gray eyes…

I wasthisclose to calling his name and asking for adifferentsort of favor this time…

No. No freaking way.

Guys like Hawke Stevens came with red flags so big and glaring you could spot them from the International Space Station, and I’d watched too many of my girlfriends go up in flames for ignoring those exact kinds of warning signs. Didn’t matter how damn hot he was—I wouldnotbe adding my name to the list of the scorched and the scorned tonight.

I sighed and opened my eyes, accepting my fate. In the epic battle between protecting the heart and satisfying the vag, the heart had—once again—emerged victorious.

I needed to get dressed. Pronto.

I dug out a clean bra and panties from my suitcase, then tugged them on with a pair of yoga pants and a thermal Christmas shirt decorated with gingerbread cookies. The shirt had three small red buttons at the top, which I fastened all the way up to my neck.

When I got back downstairs, fresh and clean andmorethan ready to forget about my inappropriate daydreams, I was greeted by a sight even more shocking than my naughty apron-and-oven-mitt fantasy.

Hawke was cooking Christmas dinner.