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“Hey.”
He turned to see the front door had opened. Grace was framed by the lintel, light from the hall flooding behind her.
“What are you doing sitting there?” she asked.
“I closed the door. Didn’t want to ring the bell and disturb you. How’s Sabrina?” He stood, stretching his muscles because dammit, he was getting old and not used to carrying his sister.
“She’s fast asleep in my bed. She still has wet hair so she’ll look wild in the morning, but at least she doesn’t smell anymore. I’m about to put her clothes in the washer. Want me to throw your t-shirt in there too?”
“Probably best not to. I can only imagine the look on Cam’s face if he catches me walking in shirtless.”
Her gaze dropped to his chest and then up again. “You could stay while it dries.”
“Yeah. That would work.”
“Come on in,” she said. “The laundry’s in the back.” He followed her, this time not looking at her ass in those shorts. Not watching the way her hips rocked as she walked.
He didn’t need to. It was already seared into his memory.
The laundry room was small. The washer and dryer were both front loaders, slid underneath a counter. By the time they were both inside the room, there wasn’t much space left.
She took the clothes from the wash tub where she must have put them before coming to find him. They’d been soaking, and she lifted them straight into the washer, throwing in some powder before looking over at him.
“Give me your shirt.”
His mouth twitched, but he did as she asked, lifting it over his head, feeling his hair getting mussed by the neckline, then rolled it into a ball and passed it to her.
Two pink discs formed on her cheeks. “Go sit down in the kitchen,” she said. “I’ll make us some sweet tea.”
He smiled. “I haven’t drunk sweet tea for years.”
“It’s not big in Europe, is it?” she asked, closing the washer door and twisting the dial.
He looked away again. Because looking meant wanting to touch.
“No. I think the last time I drank it I must have been sixteen. Laced with vodka, probably.”
“I would’ve liked to see you at sixteen.”
He swallowed. “I was a punk. I’m glad you didn’t.”
She stood. “You’re not a punk now.”
“Aren’t I?” He turned back to look at her.
Grace shook her head. And their gazes held for a moment too long.
“You sure you don’t want my robe?” she asked him, breaking the silence.
“You want me to put it on?” he asked.
“Not really.” There was that smile again. Curling her pretty lips. Making her face glow. “I kind of like the view exactly how it is.”
The thickness of her voice twisted around him. Made him ache. Made him hard. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“You shouldn’t walk around half naked,” she countered.
“That sounds like victim shaming,” he shot back, but dammit, he was grinning.
