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I’d stay home if you were with me. I bite my tongue.
Just then, he notices the shirt on the chair next to me and steps closer.
“I’ll wash it,” I blurt.
His movements are deliberately slow when he reaches for it, but I snatch it away quickly.
He cocks a brow at me and leans on the back of my chair, bringing his face level with mine.
His stupidly hot lips, dammit—they should’ve been on me last night.
“You seem too fussy about the shirt,” he says in that suggestive drawl of his. “So am I. It was a gift. It’s made out of special fabrics.”
I knew there was a trick, and I tense up, waiting to hear about it.
“It’s made with thermochromic dyes,” he explains.
“Thermo-what?” I ask quietly, not turning my head because then my lips will be just inches from his.
“Dyes that react to temperature change. They are used for a variety of applications, from culinary to military,” he explains slowly, his scent making me dizzy, his warm breath grazing my cheek with every word. The kitchen is suddenly too hot.
“Like a mood ring?”
“Kinda. This was an experimental design. The colors get lighter when the temperature of the body goes up.”
Shit. Makes sense. Maybe he gave it to me to monitor my body temperature in case I had a fever?
Last night it was getting lighter, especially…
“Especially, in high-heat generating areas,” Archer finishes my thought.
Asshole!
So the whole time yesterday as he was flirting with me and I was getting horny, those colors lightening on the bottom were an indication…
I roll my eyes. “Clever.”
“Yes. Also, it can’t be washed.”
I turn to him abruptly, our lips almost colliding. “Why?”
My heart skips a beat as I meet his smoldering eyes. A sneaky smile on his face. That smile… I’m glad I’m not wearing that shirt right now because it would be bleach-white.
“It’s sensitive to moisture,” he says quieter, his eyes dropping to my lips, then up to lock his gaze with mine again. “Changes color to a darker one when in contact with moisture. For good.”
His mischievous smile widens, and his eyes drop to the shirt that I clench in my hands like my life depends on it. He reaches for it, picking up a corner with his forefinger, but I snatch it away.
“Consider it a gift to me then,” I blurt.
“Oh?” He arches a brow. “Is something wrong?”
“No, I like it.”
His smile widens as he brings his lips to my ear. “Did you get itwet, Kat?”
I try not to blush as I glance at Alma, snatch my glass of juice, and gulp it, trying to cool down.
“Thanks, Alma,” I say, jumping off the stool, the t-shirt clutched in my hand as I turn to look at Archer. “Thank you for breakfast and”—I raise the shirt above my head—“the shirt.”
