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His eyebrows knit, and he scratches his tawny beard. “You shouldn’t run in this heat.”
“I usually don’t.” I twist to look for Jo, Fee,anyoneto save me. “Slept in. I usually run at sunrise or after sunset. So, when did you get back?”
When he doesn’t say anything, I stop searching the bar. He’s looking at me like he’s… I don’t even fucking know… like he wants to throttle me.“What?” I match his pissed-off eyebrows with some of my own.
He shakes his head, but there’s no disguising it, even beneath all that face hair.
“What?” I try again, my patience disintegrating.
Still no answer.
“You know what? Fine. Whatever.” I get to my feet and glare down at him. “I don’t have time for your grumpy ass anyway.”
Without warning, he stands. One second, I’m towering over him, all glares and pissed eyebrows. The next, he’s towering over me—even bigger glares and pissed eyebrows. “Running on your own in the dark, Kenz? I thought you had more sense than that.”
“Excuse me?” My head tilts back with the height difference—a novelty. I’m tall—he’s taller.
He folds his arms, looking even more like a Viking. “A woman like you—”
I hold my hand up when he opens his mouth to finish whatever he was about to say. “A woman like me? Really?” I’ve heard it all before. “I’m out.” I don’t give him a chance to dig the knife in any deeper. “Tell Fee I’ll catch him later.”
THREE
Kenzi
A can of whipped cream tucked under my arm, I pull the milk from the fridge and nudge the door closed with my bum. 3AM hot chocolate. My nightly ritual. Well—it’s actually my mom’s nightly ritual, just much, much later and with way more whipped cream.
Since I started planning the restaurant, like really planning it, sleep has been a commodity I’ve been sorely lacking. Who needs sleep when you could be hunting for the perfect floor tile or the loveliest napkins? Humming tunelessly, I grab a tin of cocoa-powder from the slightly wonky shelf above the cooker, and the sugar jar slides into its place. I really should fix that. It’s been like this for months. DIY—not exactly my strong suit.
A woman like you… Mylo’s words from this morning ring clear as gumpy-ass-day in my head. I glare at the deep green accent wall that separates my apartment from his as if the man himself will somehow feel myfuck youthrough the bricks and mortar. He’s not back two minutes and he’s already in my head—every giant miserable muscle of him.
A woman like you… Who even says that? I dump the ingredients onto the chunky butcher-block worktop, then get to hunting for my special milk heating pan amongst the many I’ve got hanging on my shiny new pot rack. Also, my handy work. DIY may not be my strong suit, but awoman like megets shit done for herself.
Stove ring on. Milk in the pot. I grab the cinnamon from the spice rack and my giant striped mug, the only piece left of the set Gran got me as a housewarming gift. I lean back on the worktop by the stove and stare out over the moonlit waves.Serenity at its best. My kitchen may be small, but it’s my favorite part of the apartment. Dark stone floor tiles, white cupboard doors, a dishwasher, and a huge industrial sink with one of those stretchy detachable taps, all topped off with a pretty backsplash of white subway tiles and a big ass window above the sink. Beach views. The joys of having a corner apartment.
A bang next door has me grimacing at the wall again. The one downfall to this place—thin walls. Which wasn’t a problem until he came back.A woman like you. Why can’t he just… ugh. I don’t even know. Get out of my head. The hiss of liquid on the stove drags me back from my mulish thoughts.
The milk. I grab a wooden spoon hanging by the pans on the rack and turn the stove off at the same time. The spoon gets caught in the pot rack. I yank without looking. And the whole thing comes off the wall with it. Pots, pans, ladles, the whole fucking rack. Everything crashes onto the stone tiles. I yelp. Turn. Knock the pot clean off the stove. Milk drenches my tank. Hot fucking milk. “Fuck. Shit, fuck!” I’m hopping and pulling my steaming, milk-soaked top away from my scalded skin as one last lid spins loudly, then clatters to the ground. “Fuuuuuuck!”
Banging on the door adds to the chaos. Thumping footsteps. And then, just because this situation needed a cherry on top of its suckiness—a rumpled, shirtless Mylo appears in the kitchen doorway, looming like bigfoot with a grudge. Hair in a knot, chest bare and heaving, his gaze darts around my tiny kitchen before it settles on me. “Jesus, woman.”
“I spilled milk.” It’s all I’ve got—all my shocked self can come up with—no accusations, no fuck you, no what the hell do you mean by a woman like me, no nothing. It stings too much to think straight. “Hot milk.” I just stand there holding my top away from my skin, hunched over, tears pricking at my eyes.
His steely gray gaze moves over me. Quick. Assessing. A second later, he’s in front of me.
“Take off your top.” He doesn’t wait for me to comply, simply plucks the material from my trembling fingers, and pulls it up, holding it from my face as he gets it over my head. It drops to the floor in a wet splotch.
My hands lift automatically to cover the flimsy triangles of my white cotton bralette.
He tugs them back down. “Don’t touch.” He glances behind me, then immediately lifts me by the waist, fingers digging into my sides as he sits me on the steel draining tray of the sink with smooth, efficient movements.
I suck in a shaky breath, my brain veering uselessly between wanting to ask him what the hell he thinks he’s doing to begging him to help me. So, I say nothing.
“Lean back.” His orders are curt. Sharp. Competent as he gently guides my hands down to my sides away from where they’ve creeped up and are hovering over my reddened skin again.
I whimper. It’s feeble, but I can’t even bring myself to care. It really fucking hurts.
“You’re okay, I’ve got you.” His hands on my biceps, he pushes me back with the ease of the unflappable.
