The Cheat Sheet

His grin deepens. “Do you always stand on my counters while I’m gone?” He walks through the kitchen to stand behind me.

The air ripples like it always does when he gets near me. Must ignore it! The problem is, we haven’t seen each other much since we agreed to the endorsement deal, so I’ve been able to block it out of my head that we’re going to have to date for the next few weeks. But now, at the sight of him after a full weekend away, my thoughts are screaming HE’S BASICALLY YOUR BOYFRIEND NOW—JUMP HIM!!!

I turn back to my task of removing the baking dish. “Only when I’m trying to surprise you with brownies for winning a playoff game! But you’re early! I was going to have these ready and smelling glorious by the time you walked in. I even prepared a whole song-and-dance celebration too. It was really going to be something.” My tone is all pout.

He’s standing behind me now. I hand him the dish and he sets it on the island behind him, right next to the batter. “I’m not early. It’s nine o’clock.”

My eyes bug out. “WHAT! That can’t be true.” I look at the clock and sure enough, it’s nine at night. When did that happen?

He smirks up at me and leans back against the counter. I’m relieved to see that his face looks normal again—no weird something from the field still lurking in his eyes.

“Hmm,” he rumbles with a mischievous smile. “Did someone perhaps take a little nap?”

“No!” Yes. I only meant to lie down for a few minutes, and then that somehow turned into four years and I woke up feeling like I had been teleported to another dimension. I think Nathan’s couch is laced with NyQuil because this seems to happen to me a lot over here.

He peeks over his shoulder to the living room where the evidence is strewn all over the place, as apparent as a gruesome murder scene. A cozy blanket rumpled on the couch. A pillow from my—excuse me, THE GUEST ROOM propped against the armrest. One of Nathan’s phone chargers plugged in so the cord could reach beside my pillow.

I clap loudly. “Hey, look at me!”

My distraction doesn’t work. He’s already chuckling smugly and crossing those big arms. “You totally did. You napped hard and lost track of time because you were so comfy on my couch.”

My hand goes to my hip. I feel powerful up here. Is this why tall people are always on power trips? I get it now.

“You don’t know me,” I say in my best re-enactment of one of my sassy teenage dancers.

“You napped your ass off.”

“Shut up.” So I like to nap and they always get out of hand—what about it?

He steps forward so he’s standing right in front of me. “And tell me…why is it that every single time I’m out of town, I come home to find out you’ve been spending all of your time here, napping and”—he peeks into the sink and notices the pan I used to scramble my eggs for breakfast this morning after sleeping a solid eight hours in the guest room—“living?”

I know what he wants from me. But he’s not going to get it.

“Because I’m worried someone is going to break in and steal all your stuff while you’re away and I need to protect it?”

He makes an obnoxious buzzer sound. “Wrong. Would you like to try again?”

I gasp when he wraps his arms around my thighs and easily lifts me off the counter. He pivots us away and slowly lets me slide to the ground. My power dissolves by the second. Every inch of me slides down every inch of him during this descent, and I think I might die. He’s like a brick wall, this man. I’ve never been wrapped so tightly in his arms before, and my heart is stuttering. It’s hurdling into my throat. It can’t keep up.

This is my favorite trip in my history of trips. Along the way, I take mental pictures of all the sights. I pass his hair, flipping out adorably from under his hat. His jet black eyes, as frightening as they are comforting. The full curve of his lower lip. The not-so-subtle suggestion of muscled shoulders under his hoodie. And I finally come in for a smooth landing at his wide, sturdy chest. I’ll make a scrapbook with all of these gorgeous snapshots.

I want to take in a deep breath, add a sharp scent to these memories, but I’m afraid it will sound trembly if I do. I have to be careful. Because of Tequila-gate, I’m already on thin ice. If I want to keep everything normal between us, I must act normal.

I look up and meet his eyes.

BIG mistake.

We’re standing so close, and his arms are still holding me. He smiles, and my stomach goes twisty. “You’re always here because you hate living in your sucky apartment. Admit it—you want to move in here.”

I raise my chin. “Never.” Because it’s not true. I stay here while he’s gone because I miss him and everything in here smells like him. Well, and yeah, I want to live here, but only because he also lives here. I don’t care about his fancy stuff or his soft sheets or the really deep soaking tub or…okay, fine, I like those things too. So the real reason I want to live here is because all of it combined is euphoria.

Speaking of euphoria, why are his arms still looped tightly around me? Should I try to wiggle away? My body will never comply. It’s already curled up and made a new home here. Geez, his five o’clock shadow is hot. I bet it would tickle my neck.

Nathan’s eyes dart over my shoulder, and his smile goes wicked. The next thing I know, his finger is covered in brownie mix and smearing across my cheekbones, slowly and with care. “Admit it,” he says with that villainous grin.

I audibly inhale low and long, bli

nking like, Oh no you did not just do that!