Ripped (Miller Sisters 1)

He was standing with his back to me, but he turned the moment I entered the room. He’d pulled on his jeans but nothing else and I stared at his chest and wondered how I could possibly want to drag him straight back to bed after the night we’d spent.

I wasn’t any good at morning-after conversations and I gestured towards the door, conscious that I was naked under his shirt. ‘I should probably get going—’

‘Why?’

I tucked my hair behind my ear. ‘I thought you might have things to do today.’

‘I have.’ He flipped the bacon. ‘And I plan to do them with you.’

‘Oh.’ My stomach curled. A night with him hadn’t cured me of anything. I found myself staring at his shoulders and the lean, athletic lines of his body. He was the hottest guy on the face of the earth.

‘Unless you think Rosie needs you?’

I watched the way his biceps flexed as he reached for a plate. ‘She’

s working today. Christmas Day is the only day of the year she doesn’t train. But I should text her.’ Dragging my eyes away from sleek male muscle, I wandered through to the living room. Light poured through the windows, reflecting off glass and polished surfaces. Outside the sky was a perfect winter blue and the sun sparkled on the surface of the river.

I found my phone, sent my sister a text thanking her for my Christmas ‘gift’, which I had no intention of returning for a refund, and then stood for a moment, distracted by the view, thinking about the night we’d spent.

‘Coffee?’ He had the sexiest voice I’d ever heard and I turned and saw he’d put two plates on the table and was now holding out a mug to me.

‘Thanks.’ I took it and curled my hands around the warmth, even though his apartment was a perfect temperature. ‘I love looking at the river.’

‘Me, too.’ He hadn’t shaved and his jaw was darkened by stubble. ‘That’s why I chose this place. Are you hungry?’

‘Starving.’ I hadn’t eaten since the turkey and we’d done some serious exercise. ‘So you can cook.’

‘I cooked for my sister for years. She’s still alive.’ He handed me a plate piled with fluffy scrambled eggs and rashers of crisp bacon and I carried it over to the glass table by the window.

My stomach growled. ‘If I had a view like this I’d never go to work.’

‘You’re not working this week?’

‘Officially my department is closed until January 2, but that doesn’t stop the emails.’

‘You’re still loving your work?’ He sprawled in the chair opposite me and suddenly the view had serious competition. I picked up my fork, cautious about answering. Thanks to Charlie I was programmed not to talk about my work.

‘It’s fine, thanks.’

‘I remember how excited you were when you got the job.’

And I remembered he’d been the only one to ask questions. ‘It’s exciting and the people are—’ I broke off, reminding myself he was probably just being polite, but then I realized he was still listening and looking at me, not at his watch or over my shoulder as Charlie had always done. And because of that I found myself telling him everything I was doing, and the more I talked the more enthusiastic I was until I realized I’d cleared my plate and must have bored him rigid. ‘Sorry.’

‘For what? That is the first time I’ve seen you that enthusiastic since that first night we met.’ And he didn’t look bored. He looked interested and he asked me a few questions that proved he was as bright as he was spectacular looking. ‘I’m pleased it’s working out. So NASA isn’t going to get you yet.’

I blushed, thinking about that awful dinner when everyone had talked about their hopes for the future and I’d confessed I wanted to work for NASA. Charlie had mocked me (I think his exact words were ‘Apollo Hayley—God help us all’). It wasn’t ladylike to be interested in rockets and jet propulsion (although frankly, since that hot encounter with Nico at the wedding I’d though of nothing but thrust, and not the sort taught by physics teachers.)

I changed the subject. ‘Tell me the history of the tattoo.’

He drank his coffee and for a moment I thought he wasn’t going to answer.

Then he put his mug down. ‘We moved from Sicily to London when I was ten. My English was terrible and—’ he dismissed it all with a shrug ‘—let’s just say school was hell, so I stayed away.’

‘Really? I imagined you being a straight-A student.’

‘That part came later. Back then, I was out of control.’

I eyed the tattoo wrapped round hard bulge of his bicep. ‘So that was that when—?’