Page 46 of Rising Heat

Mine. Actually mine.

I reach for the bedroom doors⁠—

CLANK.

The sound snaps through the apartment hard enough that I stop mid-step.

For a second, I just stand there.

Then comes a scrape. A muffled curse. Something heavy shifting from the ensuite bathroom.

My stomach drops.

Someone is in my apartment.

Call Tyler flashes through my head instantly. Luckily, it’s followed by the realization that I would rather throw myself down the stairs than become the girl who calls her hot landlord every time something goes wrong.

Which leaves me with option b.

I grab the nearest weapon, which turns out to be the wooden spoon drying beside the sink.

Great.

I tighten my grip anyway.

“If I die,” I mutter, moving back toward the bathroom, “Bex better delete my ebook highlights.”

The bathroom door is cracked open. I edge closer, pulse hammering, and catch a glimpse of the white subway tile through the gap. Then I see movement beneath the vanity.

I get the back of him first—his dark red T-shirt stretches across broad shoulders, the fabric pulling at the seams in places that feel less like a design choice and more like a surrender. Ink winds up one forearm and disappears beneath his sleeve.

One hand braces against the cabinet frame while the other turns a wrench without any urgency whatsoever, like there’s nowhere else he needs to be and nothing about being discovered in someone else’s bathroom concerns him.

I tighten my grip on the spoon.

“What the hell?”

He stills then sets the wrench down and leans back slowly, turning as if he’s only just become aware someone else is in the room.

Oh my.

Unless Tyler has a second absurdly attractive brother nobody bothered to mention, this has to be Mack.

The same green-hazel eyes as Tyler, only sharper. His face is rougher too—dark hair cropped short, a beard kept close enough to show the shape of his jaw underneath, which is doing things to my composure.

And my pelvic floor.

He’s older by a few years and broader everywhere that counts, the kind of solidness that comes from years of actual work instead of recreational gym selfies.

But where Tyler walks into a room like he already knows everyone, Mack looks like he walks in like he doesn’t care to.

He slowly rises to his full height. And keeps rising.

I stare up at him through my lashes one beat longer than I can reasonably blame on shock.

He looks like he could ruin your life and make you thank him for it, which was deeply inconvenient given my current state of high alert and the fact that I was holding a wooden spoon as my defense weapon of choice.

The corner of his mouth shifts. Not a smile exactly, but more like he thought about smiling and decided against it.