I look to the left, but the living room is empty. I turn to the right to find Noah standing in the kitchen, doing the dishes.
Good Lord, that man is sexy.
And it happens again, those thoughts I shouldn’t be having.
Track pants hang low on Noah’s hips, and since he isn’t wearing a shirt, every last muscle in his back is on full display. I wonder what I’d do if I got to wake up to that every morning? I probably wouldn’t get a single thing done because this view would inevitably lead to crazy-hot kitchen sex.
I swallow, watching the muscles in his back move beneath smooth skin. I’ve never been one to ogle a back before, but I’d gladly ogle his for hours if it were socially acceptable.
With each move of his arms, another muscle makes itself known, and I blink in awe of how perfect Noah’s body is.
Finally, he looks over his shoulder. Eyes narrowed, he watches me a for a beat and then asks, “Would you like to see the front too?” He cocks a brow, and my cheeks heat up.
The new me wants to say, Yes, actually, I’d love to see the front. Thank you for offering, but I’m not feeling quite that brazen this morning, so I do the next best thing: I clear my throat and ignore the question altogether. “Mind if I come in?”
“A little late to ask, don’t you think?”
I’m going to ignore that too. “Mikey said to let myself in.” Shutting the door, I walk toward Noah and hand him Mikey’s coffee cup, which he takes and puts in the sink.
I offer him the container of muffins, which he doesn’t take. “I brought blueberry muffins; thought you might be hungry.”
Noah looks longingly at the muffins, but then his face hardens, and he crosses his arms over his chiseled chest. “I don’t like blueberry muffins.”
“Mikey said you’d love them.”
His jaw ticks. “Well, Mikey was wrong.”
“Okay.” I put the container on the kitchen table and turn to him. “I can make you something else to eat. Pancakes, maybe?”
“I don’t like pancakes.”
“How about cinnamon rolls?”
“Too sweet.”
“Bacon?”
“I don’t want you to make me breakfast,” he growls. “I don’t want your help at all. What I want is for you to go back wherever you came from.”
Ouch. I take a step back, and Noah drops his head.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “That didn’t come out the way I wanted it to.”
Fuck him. A girl can only take so much. If he doesn’t want my help, I’m not going to waste another second on his ass, and my brain better get the damn message and quit having those inappropriate thoughts.
Grabbing the muffins off the table, I make a beeline for the door. “You’re an asshole, Noah Cunningham.”
“Wait,” he calls, but I keep walking. “Lennon, wai—shit.”
Noah’s words are cut off by a loud thud, and I spin around to find him slumped over a kitchen chair, his foot dangling above the floor.
“You’re not even supposed to be standing,” I scold, my anger dissolving into concern.
Dropping the muffin container on the coffee table, I go to him, wrap an arm around his back, and help him to the couch. And I swear I don’t cop a feel of all those muscles I’ve been ogli
ng.
Without a word, I help him get situated, pull up an ottoman, prop his foot there, and slide off his sock.