Sweet (Landry Family 6)

I make my way up the wooden steps and then tug on the screen door. It opens with a squeal. Not sure whether to knock or just walk in, I decide to test the handle.

It’s free.

I wrap my hand around the knob and push the door open.

I’ve been to Nate’s house twice. Both times were to drop off paperwork from The Gold Room since he only closes it himself on the weekends, preferring to be home with his son during the week. Which I find ridiculously attractive. And both times I’ve been here, I didn’t make it any farther than the small foyer.

The door shuts as softly as I can manage.

The walls are painted an eggshell white. It could probably use a refresh, but who am I to judge? To my left is a wooden storage unit that goes from the floor to the ceiling. Jackets are hung haphazardly on hooks across the middle of it, and shoes are shoved into the four small compartments at the bottom. To my right are three art pieces that definitely came from a first-grade classroom.

They make me smile.

I tiptoe a little farther into the house, unsure what to do. This wouldn’t have been a problem if you didn’t procrastinate coming over here. I get to the doorway and stop.

A dining area with a circular table is on my right. In the middle sits a basket filled with magazines and crayons. But to the left? That’s the showstopper.

My mouth goes dry. My insides do this interesting mix of shriveling up and melting into a heated pool of need.

I don’t know what’s hotter—the way he sits in the chair. Reclined back, knees apart, thumb feathering his bottom lip. Or the fact that he waited up for me.

I know he said he doesn’t go to bed until midnight, so there’s a distinct possibility that he would be up and sitting here anyway. But I don’t think so.

He lifts a heavy brow. It’s an unspoken question, a prompt for me to speak. And I do.

“You didn’t have to wait up.” I sit on the sofa—on the opposite end. I just need a minute. “Did you happen to grab my bags from The Gold Room? They weren’t there when I went back to get them.”

He holds my gaze for a long moment before dropping his hand and sighing. “Yeah. I got them.”

“Awesome.” I grin, finding my footing. “I’d hate to have to sleep in my underwear, considering the whole don’t be naked rule.”

Nate wants to smile. The corners of his lips twitch. But instead of giving in, he sits up and rests his elbows on his knees.

“Where have you been?” he asks, ignoring my comment about sleeping in the buff.

“Running errands.”

“What errands can be run at eleven o’clock at night?”

I shift around on the sofa until I’m comfortable. He watches every move I make. Satisfaction slips over my nerves and settles them down.

“You know,” I say, toying with him. “There’s a Daddy joke here if I wanted to make it.”

He takes a deep breath and loses the battle with his smile. A slight, barely-there grin licks at the corner of his lips.

“But I won’t,” I say, content with his reaction. “You’re welcome for that.”

“So you’re just going to ignore my question?”

“I’m staying with you. I’m not your child.” I wink. “See that Daddy workaround? Didn’t even touch it.”

He chuckles, although begrudgingly.

“But, because I appreciate your hospitality, I’ll humor you,” I say. “I had an early dinner with Hollis. Then I got a coffee, gas, and then hung out at the bookstore for a couple of hours. I was going to go to my friend Kinsley’s house, but she had a date like a boss.”

“You hung out at a bookstore? This late?”

“Yes,” I say, rolling my eyes for effect. “I fretted between the romance section and self-help but went with the latter figuring it would behoove me to help myself before trying to fall in love. Right?”

He narrows his eyes but doesn’t say anything.

“Anyway, I probably shouldn’t have waited until the last minute to show up here, but I did, and it’s done. Now that the Band-Aid has been ripped off and the awkwardness of, well, this, is over, I’ll be earlier from here on out. Promise.”

“I don’t want this to be awkward, Paige.”

“I don’t want it to be either.”

He stands up and stretches overhead. The edge of his white T-shirt pulls away from the waistband of his black joggers, displaying a sliver of muscled abdomen.

Good God.

“Are you hungry? You said you had an early dinner,” he says over his shoulder as he walks across the room, into the dining area, and through a doorway.

I jump up and follow him like a puppy. “No. I’m good.”

We enter a small, cozy kitchen. There is no discernable theme—no color palette or common element like lemons or beer cans, even. Yet somehow, it all pulls together in a warm and inviting way.