Liam Davis & The Raven (Love Inscribed 1)

“No rent?” he asked.

The surprised look on his face startled me into a jerky movement, and I splashed water down Quinn’s front, soaking him. I must have handed him the glass a little faster than I should have. He yelped and plucked his T-shirt away from his stomach as the cold liquid soaked to his skin.

“Sorry,” I said. “Misjudged that one completely.”

“Just a little.” Quinn reached over his shoulder and pulled off the shirt. He balled it up and rested it on the counter, then walked slowly toward the bag he’d dumped at the entrance. “Good thing I have my sports stuff here.”

“Sports stuff?” I hummed.

Without the loose T-shirt, Quinn looked like a superhero. His toned stomach tapered gently to his hips, and he had a lot more hair on his chest than I had.

I pushed my glasses up.

Fascinating how the slight chill in the air pebbled goosebumps all down his stomach, disappearing at the waistband of his jeans.

Similar to my irrational tingling whenever the word examination was mentioned, I got goosebumps just looking at Quinn.

He shifted into a crouch, laughing softly as he unzipped his bag. “Like what you see?”

I lifted my gaze to his. “Yes, I do.”

He stopped mid-chuckle. “Um, Liam? You do?”

I nodded. “I’m an observer. It’s in my nature.”

“In your nature,” he repeated, glancing at his stomach. He bit down what looked like a retort, and he ruffled through his sports bag.

His bleached hair glinted under the light.

“What is your natural color?” I asked. I’d been curious about that. Was it the same light brown as his chest hair?

Quinn pulled on a large white shirt. When his head popped through, he stared at me for a moment, his lips wobbling into a grin as he ran a hand through his hair. “It’s an unremarkable mousy brown.”

I cocked my head, trying to imagine the color on him. Somehow, in my imagination at least, it made him look paler and less . . . Quinn. “Hmm. Probably should keep dying it then.”

He murmured something under his breath, and chased it with a shake of the head. Coming back to the kitchen, he said in a rustier version of his voice, “Back to no rent. I can’t freeload, I just . . . that doesn’t work for me.”

Didn’t work for him?

What type of person didn’t take up the offer of free accommodations? He could save his money for important things like university fees, traveling, savings . . . but instead he insisted on paying for something he didn’t have to?

“I have to pitch in somehow,” he said, picking a rotting apple from the fruit bowl and walking it to the bin. He pressed his foot on the pedal and dropped the apple in. Then, grabbing two fresher ones, he moved around me and washed them.

How easily he made this place home. How foreign it was to have someone in my kitchen cutting apples into wedges.

Quinn rummaged for a plate while I distractedly thought of a way he could pitch in.

“Apple?” he said, putting the plate between us and taking a wedge to his lips.

I took one. “It doesn’t seem practical insisting to pay for something you could have for free.”

He was standing so close to me I almost felt his shrug brush against my side. “Sometimes, Liam, it’s not about being practical or even logical.” He crunched on his apple. “It’s about doing what you feel is right.”

I used my apple to push up my glasses before taking a bite. “Well, I don’t get it, but okay. How about you pay for my daily newspapers? That’s about three or four dollars a day.”

“That’s it? No, no, I’ve got to do more.”

It took me another two slices of apple before I had an idea that might work. “Actually, I do have a thought.”

“What’s that?” He twisted toward me, his hip leaning against the counter. He wiped his sticky fingers against his jeans.

I lingered on that stomach of his. “I could use a man with the body of a superhero.”

Quinn hooked a finger under my chin and lifted my face. He raised a slow, questioning brow. “Liam, if I didn’t already have some idea how your brain works, you’d be flat on your back right now. Please tell me what you mean.”

I shook my head. “I mean, since the night I was attacked, I’ve been more than skittish going to parties. I’d feel a lot more comfortable if I went with someone who knew how to fight. At least until I learn how to defend myself.”

“Are you saying you want me to go with you to parties for rent?”

“Would that be a problem?”

He laughed, and his fresh breath burst in little bouts against my temple. “Not if you refer to me as your superhero from time to time. My ego could get used to that.”