It takes a long couple of seconds to settle my breathing and trust my reaction enough to take another peek. When I do, I get a glimpse of him leaning against the doorframe with his strong arms crossed over his chest.
It’s a view all its own. I’d be hard-pressed to look away under normal circumstances. But the fact that I know intimately the feeling of those arms around my waist, his shoulders under my palms, his lips on my body—it makes it even harder to stay composed.
I force a swallow. “Are you going to stand there like a weirdo, or are you going to say something?”
“Are you going to stand there and pretend like you don’t know I’m here, or are you going to turn around?”
Tossing the towel on the counter, I spin on my heel . . . and am wholly unprepared for the sight in front of me.
He’s shucked his work scrubs for a pair of gray sweatpants and a white cotton shirt that skims the ridges of his body. The shirt looks like it’s made of the softest fabric, and the color highlights a set of tanned forearms that are muscled and thick.
Shit.
Turning around again, I pour myself a drink of ice-cold water from the refrigerator. Being thirsty, whether from dehydration or desperation, is not what I want to be, and the temperature in the kitchen just rose to a dangerous level.
“You okay there, sweet pea?” he teases.
Asshole.
“Me?” I ask, clenching my hands so I don’t fan my face. “I’m fine.”
“That you are,” he mumbles under his breath. He shoves off the doorframe with a grin as wide as the kitchen. “So what are we going to do this evening, Mrs. McKenzie?”
You.
No. No, no, no, Sophia Louisa Bates. Get a grip.
I shake my head to clear the errant thoughts.
“I don’t know,” I say as casually as I can. I try to force the flutter in my stomach from the “Mrs. McKenzie” comment to stop. “I’m trying to decide what to do for dinner. How was your day at the clinic?”
“Not bad. I saw two dogs, and a cat with three legs, thanks to a lawn mower. But that thing could run, let me tell you. Oh, and the highlight of my day was a guinea pig named Toots with an impacted bowel.” He makes a face.
“The cat with the three legs has been alive longer than me. Its name is Midnight, and it’s kind of the town cat. Everyone sort of takes care of it.”
He furrows his brow. “Cats have a life span of two to sixteen, seventeen years, give or take. There’s no way that cat is older than you.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Well, it is.”
“Well . . . fine.” He laughs. “On another, more neutral note, is it wrong of me to say that I was hoping you were going to cook? Maybe something with chicken? Because I’m getting used to home-cooked food, and I kind of like it.”
I grin at the compliment. “Don’t bother trying to charm me now.”
“If I was trying to charm you, you’d know it.”
My face heats in response to his smirk. “I was going to fry some chicken breasts, but my hands hurt.” I hold them up for him to see the wrinkled pads of my fingers. “I scrubbed the bathrooms all day and didn’t wear gloves.”
“I could’ve helped you. And I totally have rubber gloves in my bag.”
I back away slowly. “That’s an odd thing to carry around.”
He chuckles. It’s low, smooth, and melodic and strums that little chord in my body that none of the blind dates that Liv and Jobe set me up on ever seem to hit. Probably because Holden is absolutely unrelated to me, no matter how far back you look, and has all his real teeth. And because he’s absolutely gorgeous and . . . my husband.
“They’re in case I run into an emergency animal situation,” he says, rolling his eyes. “But back to more pressing topics—dinner. Can I help you make it? Or should we just go to Tank’s?”
“I could totally go for a salad with ketchup dressing.” I smack my lips together. “I can taste it now.”
He makes a face. “I’m sorry. I thought you just said ketchup dressing.”
“I did.”
“The idea of eating ketchup on a salad is enough to make me want to vomit.”
“That’s only because you’ve never had it,” I say, wagging a finger his direction. “Don’t knock something until you’ve tried it. Didn’t your mother teach you that?”
He works through the concept by biting on his bottom lip. A whiff of cologne, something peppery with the warmth of leather, billows through the air. It dances through my body and taunts my brain.
“My mom taught me not to curse in public. Especially the word ‘fuck’ in church. That’s a lesson I won’t soon forget.” He widens his eyes for effect.