Hate You Not

“You’re not so bad,” I concede.

He lifts a brow, and I add, “For the devil.”Burke mutters something about being right back and disappears inside, and just a minute later, the truck pulls back up and everyone spills out of it with stories about snipes.

I don’t see him again until the house has cleared out. I told everyone he was staying late to put the kids to sleep and tell them goodbye, and no one thought a thing about it—except Leah’s dumb ass. She grinned like a fool when she told me goodnight.

Once it’s just the four of us remaining, Burke says he’ll clean up the yard and take the dogs out while I put the kids to bed—“so they can do their thing with you.” He pops in when I’m turning off the light, and Oliver convinces him to tell a story.

I don’t know where to go. If I go into my room and make it up onto the bed, I won’t be getting down without a lot of trouble. So if the two of us chat at all, it’ll be in my room. And if I have to use the powder room, I might need help. I don’t think that’s a smart idea.

I crutch my way into the kitchen, get myself a glass of tea and a cookie without busting my ass, and settle on the couch. There’s still the armchair if he wants to come and join me.

Join me doing what?

I hear the kids screaming—I think in glee—and figure I’ve got a few minutes to figure this out. I spend them wondering why I agreed to let him spend the night, and then telling myself it’s stupid to be nervous. We’re nothing more than friendly acquaintances, at best, and even though he’s beautiful, with the body of a god, he’s still the devil. I’m not tempted by the devil.

Guy like him could never be my type. I bet his boots have still got the price tag stickers on the bottom. If I touched his hand, it would be softer than a baby’s bottom. Lord knows I like calloused hands—and he’s a city boy down to his wicked, devil core. I lick my lips. Probably better not to use “wicked” to describe him since it gets me thinking more about his body.

I wonder how much time he spends at the gym. One of those corporate gyms, I bet—the kind where you go up to the elliptical on the eighteenth floor after your chauffeur drops you off at work at 3:30 in the morning. Exercise, and then you have your black coffee and your orange and two point five egg whites. I bet his life is just like that.

And then—“Whoa.” I jerk as I spot him in the doorway between hall and living room. “You just sort of poofed there.” I snap my fingers. “Apparated,” I say, using Harry Potter language.

He pinches his T-shirt in between his fingers, pulling it away from his abs, and I realize there’s blue stuff on it.

“What the what?”

He laughs. “I gave the kids a mint I had in my pocket, and Margot wanted to brush her teeth again. Got sparkle toothpaste all over my shirt.”

“Well, hell.”

He walks closer to me, so I can see how messy he is. “Looks like someone shot the tube off on you.”

My cheeks blaze as those words spill from my lips.

Shot off? Really, June?

“Good smell,” he remarks.

“Do you want another shirt?”

He starts to pull it off. “Yeah,” he says from behind the fabric, as his abs peek out below the hemline. “I’ll take one if that’s okay.”

Then the shirt is off. He’s standing two feet from me in all his bulky, chiseled, smooth-skinned glory.

“They’re in my room,” I manage.

“Okay.”

I nod and swallow. “I keep the T-shirts in that big drawer in the very middle of my dresser. Might be one your size in there if you look hard.”

While he’s gone to riffle through my stuff, I try to regain control of my vital signs. Holy hell, he’s pure perfection. Even in my wildest dreams, I didn’t know he’d look that good bare-chested.

A minute later, he strolls back into the living room holding a bright green T-shirt.

“Farmer’s Market?” he says, holding out a shirt I won in a raffle there a few years back.

“Yeah, you can wear that one. What size is it?” I frown, because I thought it was a tighter one.

“Says large.”

I nod. “That should work, then.”

He turns toward the TV—I fumble with the remote, trying to pull up Netflix—while he pulls the shirt over his head. He gets one arm in and then starts laughing.

“Well, shit,” I murmur.

He’s stuck. He’s got one arm in, and I don’t think that he can get it out without ripping my shirt in half. I don’t know how he misread the tag, but that is definitely not a size large.