Page 28 of Blue Line

I open my eyes to find him hovering over me.

In his boxers.

All of his tattoos on display.

Wearing wire-frame glasses.

Holy fuck, the man wears glasses. Kill me now. Glasses are my weakness.

“Glasses?” I squeak.

He smirks, pushing said glasses up his nose. “Yep. But I usually wear contacts.”

“Oh.”

“You okay?” he asks, peering down at me, his gray eyes sweeping over my body as if he’s trying to check for injuries.

I’m too stunned to answer. Not from the fall, but from the man towering over me with not a care in the world that I’m staring up at him from the floor while he’s wearing basically nothing.

“Yep. Yep. Yep.” I finally manage to say as I scramble to my feet. “I’m just gonna …” I skirt around him, ready to make a mad dash to my room. I’ve only made it a couple of steps out of the kitchen when he speaks again.

“Whoa, tornado, slow down.”

I pause, turning to face him. “Tornado?”

“You tried to blow out of here like one …”

I crinkle my brow, unsure whether to take that as a compliment or an insult.

He must notice my confusion because he shrugs, running a hand over his naked chest, and I can’t help following the movement. I swallow roughly. Weston is all muscles. Muscles and tattoos. And glasses. Can’t forget the glasses. Icing on the fucking cake.

“Eyes up here,” he murmurs, and when I meet his gaze, I realize he’s smirking.

“You’re the one who’s practically naked,” I hiss, trying to act as though I’m not affected by the sight in front of me. “What the hell, Weston? Where are your pants?”

He gives me a sheepish grin. “I forgot you were here.” He pulls at the back of his neck, his face turning red. “How about I make you breakfast? As an apology for forgetting my pants. I make a mean omelet.”

My stomach rumbles, and I wrap my arms around my midsection. “Deal, but please put pants on first.”

He gives me a mock salute before sauntering out of the room, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t checking out his ass. I can’t help it. He’s hot. Nothing wrong with looking. He’s the one who was walking around in just boxers.

Blowing out a breath, I pour myself a big mug of coffee in hopes that it’ll take my mind off him and the way he looked.

“Please don’t be one of those people who drinks their coffee black,” I mutter. “Gross.”

Opening the fridge, I find a variety of creamers. Score. I stare at them for a few seconds like a kid in a candy shop before deciding on the hazelnut flavor.

“I see you’re going with my favorite.”

I startle and turn around to see him leaning against the entranceway of the kitchen, watching me, his arms and legs crossed. That was fast. At least he’s dressed now. Not that what he’s wearing is much better since he’s sporting a pair of gray sweatpants, a worn Storm shirt, and bare feet. His glasses are gone, sadly, but his black hair is still messy as though he’s been running his hand through it.

I raise an eyebrow. “I’m shocked you have so many.”

“I like to keep things interesting.”

He steps into the kitchen and reaches around me, grabbing a frying pan off the drainboard. He sets it on the stove top.

I take my mug and sit at one of the barstools where we ate dinner last night and watch him crack a couple of eggs into a bowl.