Page 25 of This Reckless Home

My mouth drops open. “Tina!"

She just hums, flipping a pancake with suspicious cheerfulness as the children start to filter in.

Luckily, none of them seem to notice or care that I’m wearing a jumper, busily chatting about the market yesterday and their plans for today. As it’s the last Sunday of the month, we have family day today so lots to set up and prepare.

My eyes widen.

Oh. Fucking. Hell.

My fingers flutter to my neck just as Steele enters the kitchen. His gaze finds me instantly, darting to where my hand rests against my neck, that half smile tugging up one side of his lips. Bastard.

“Morning, Flower,” he rumbles in that sinfully deep voice of his, coming to sit at the breakfast bar rather than the table. I can’t help thinking it’s because it’s where I am, getting the toppings for the pancakes and other breakfast things out.

“M-morning,” I stutter like a silly schoolgirl, that half smile of his turning into a full grin.

There’s a possessive satisfaction radiating off him that does nothing for my underwear.

Anatole and Nox arrive next, Jus following behind them talking with Sally.

They both catch sight of me, of my stupid hand that brushes the scarf again. I see the look they give Steele, then their eyes travel back to me.

Christ.

“Good morning,” I say cheerfully, a little too loudly and Steele gives a small chuckle.

“Morning, Bloom,” Anatole greets, his piercing blue eyes seeing right through me.

“Morning, Petal,” Nox adds, a single sharp brow raised.

“Juice! We need juice,” I exclaim, wanting to facepalm a moment later for how much of a twat I sound.

I grab the juice, bringing it over to the table and pouring some for Peggy. A hand brushes my lower back, a scarred arm reaching past me for the coffee pot.

“Excuse me,” Steele mumbles in my ear, and lord have mercy.

The touch is brief. Casual. Could be accidental.

Yeah fucking right.

Except the way Steele’s fingers linger just a second too long. The way his thumb strokes once against my spine before pulling away.

I nearly drop the bloody jug.

When I glance up, Anatole is watching us, his blue eyes sharp and assessing. His jaw works like he's trying to figure out a puzzle.

Gosh, why is it suddenly so hot in here?

I swing my gaze around as I straighten. Nox is leaning against the counter, pale green eyes moving between Steele and me, that too-clever brain of his clearly working overtime.

It’s then I realise we need more plates, and they are in the high cupboard next to Nox. Taking an only slightly shaking inhale, I walk over to him.

“Excuse me,” I ask as I reach up to grab the plates, realising too late that the scarf and turtleneck both shift. Just slightly. But it’s enough if the sharp intake of breath Nox lets out is any indication.

“Blossom,” Nox’s voice cuts through the breakfast chatter, even though it’s low enough that I suspect only I can hear it. It’s sharp, with something I can’t identify but makes my heart race. “What’s that on your neck?”

I freeze, hand still extended towards the cursed plates.

“N-nothing,” I say far too quickly, tugging the fabric back up.