Chapter Six
She’d just finished wiping off the last table when someone knocked at the front door. Glancing through the glass door, she smiled when she saw Hamilton.
Pushing on the release bar, she opened the door. “Hey!”
He gave her a wordless tip of his head as he stepped inside.
“I’m all done. Just let me turn off the kitchen lights, and I’ll be ready to go.” She hurried into the kitchen, pulling off her apron and tossing it and her towel into the laundry bin. On her way back to the front, she hit the light switch, bathing the kitchen in gray almost-darkness. The sky out the west windows showed the sun had dipped behind the mountains, leaving just a dark red band to show that it had recently been daylight. Leah loved spring, how each day was a little bit longer than the one before. It was only March, so there would be lots of snow and cold days over the next few months, but summer wasn’t too far away.
She rejoined Hamilton in the front, pulling her hoodie from under the register. Even though it felt too hot when she pulled it on, she knew she’d be grateful for the extra layer once they stepped outside. When the sun went down, so did the temperature.
“Was he here?”
“Jude?” Grabbing her purse, she moved toward the door, only to pivot around when she realized she’d forgotten something important. “No, thank goodness. It was busy for a Wednesday, but everyone was delightfully non-stalker-y.” Pulling a bakery box off the shelf by the register, she was surprised by the weight. Maybe she’d gone overboard when she’d packed it earlier.
“Good.”
It was more of a grunt than an actual word, and Leah smiled.
“What?” he asked.
“You’re sort of prissy most of the time, so it’s fun that you can go all caveman, too.” She held out the box. “Here. This is for you. Thanks again for your help this morning. It’s because of you that I still have my hair. If I’d had to do all that on my own, I would’ve torn it out.”
He accepted the box automatically, while staring at her like he wasn’t sure if he should be shocked, offended or grateful.
“I put a little bit of everything in there,” she said, using her body to push open the door as she double-checked that her keys were in her purse. The door locked automatically, and she didn’t want to show up at three the next morning, unable to get inside.
“Thank you.” He seemed to have sorted through his reactions and settled on gratitude. “I like everything you make.”
She grinned at him, touched by the unexpected compliment. “Aw, thank you!”
Side by side, they crossed the parking lot, heading toward the walking path that led to her building. Staying on the main streets was a slightly faster route, but the trail was prettier and quieter, winding through a small park, and she didn’t have to breathe vehicle exhaust the entire way home.
“What are you going to do tomorrow morning?” he asked, holding the bakery box tucked against his chest, like it was precious.
“Do?” She looked at him, confused. “I’ll go in to work like usual.”
“Are you going to drive?”
She groaned, remembering Castillo’s recommendation. “Oh, right. I forgot for a minute.” It had been so pleasant, walking through the dusky evening next to Hamilton, that the reason he was accompanying her home had slipped her mind. “It’s so close. It seems silly to drive. After all, Jude could jump me when I get out of my car just as easily as he could ambush me on this path. I doubt he even knows where I live, or that I walk to work.”
Hamilton made a tsk sound that was identical to the noise that her grandma used to make, and Leah started to giggle.
“You shouldn’t walk alone, especially in the middle of the night.” He gave her a disapproving look, although she wasn’t sure if it was in response to her not wanting to drive or her laughter.
“I’ll bring my pepper spray,” she said. “And my rape whistle. And my flashlight alarm.”
His frown didn’t lighten.
“My grandma gave me the spray and whistle and screaming flashlight when I moved into my apartment.” Leah knew he probably didn’t care about the origins of her safety kit, but she hoped to distract him. After working with him a few times, she could almost smell the oncoming lecture. “It was before my roommate moved in, and she was worried about me living alone.”
“Your roommate?”
She held back a grin. He’d taken the conversational bait. If she kept him talking about other things, she might be able to avoid the lecture altogether. “Annabelle. She’s amazing. You can meet her if she’s home, although she’ll probably have to work late again. She’s having some work issues right now.”
“Work issues?”
“Her boss is a dick.”
“Ah.”
“If you know any art galleries needing a manager, let me know. It’d be good if she could get away from Dick before she kills him.”
“His name is Dick?”
“Yes. He’s both a lowercase and uppercase dick.”
“That’s appropriate.”
“Exactly.” She grinned at his profile, marveling once again at how smoothly their conversations flowed. The sun had set completely, but the park had plentiful sodium lights lining the trail, so she could see the outline of his strong features quite clearly, and she was pretty sure he was doing that almost-smiling thing again.
“My friend is an artist.”
“Which friend?” Her brain instantly went to female friend, and her stomach curdled slightly as she wondered if his friend was more his type than the two customers who’d hit on him that morning. She’d never seen anyone—male or female—visiting his loft, but that didn’t mean anything. After all, she was normally running around like a headless chicken who baked, and she didn’t spend much time watching who came in and out. Hamilton could be going to his friend’s place, too. Leah found herself bristling at the thought of this imaginary woman who was completely his type—whatever that was.
“Louis Dumont.”
She turned her head to stare at him. “Louis Dumont? I’m pretty clueless when it comes to art, but even I’ve heard of him. He did that series with the couples, right? The ones with all the bright colors?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know Louis Dumont?”
“We were in the same unit.”
“Army?”
“Yes.”
“That’s awesome. Annabelle’s going to flip when I tell her that I know Louis Dumont.”
“What?” It was his turn to look at her. Although it was hard to tell in the distorting illumination from the streetlights, she was pretty sure he was frowning in confusion. “How do you know him?”
“I vicariously know him now, since he’s your friend, and we’re friends, so it’s pretty much like Louis Dumont and I are friends.”
She expected him to question her logic. In fact, she looked forward to the argument. It was fun ruffling Hamilton’s feathers by using twisted reasoning. Instead, though, he just asked, “We’re friends?”
“Of course we’re friends. You don’t think I let just anyone touch my frosting, do you?”
“I don’t know.” His voice shifted, ever so slightly, and something about it made her shiver. “Do you?”
“Definitely not.” The conversation had taken a strange turn and was filled with undertones that Leah wasn’t sure if she was interpreting correctly or not. Normally, she could flirt with the best of them, but Hamilton was harder to read. Plus, a pretty big part of her wanted him to like her, so she was worried that she might be inventing subtext that wasn’t actually there. “You joined an exclusive club when you handled my frosting.”
“Good.” It wasn’t her imagination. His voice was definitely deeper, more...growly. She tucked her hands into her center hoodie pocket so she could clutch her fingers together in glee—and to keep her hands off of him. When he sounded all possessive and rumbly like that, it was hard to not grab him. Despite their tension-filled conversation, she was pretty sure that Hamilton wasn’t a fan of being randomly grabbed.
They rounded a curve in the path, and Leah held back a sound of disappointment. They were already at the turnoff for her apartment building. “I’m right here.”
“I’ll walk you to your door.”
She didn’t argue, even though her door was just twenty feet farther on the well-lit path. Grabbing her keys as she approached the entrance, she pushed the fob button that made the door swing open automatically. “Did you want to come in?”
The question was out before she thought about it. Her face warmed as she tried to figure out how to wiggle out of embarrassment when he inevitably turned her down, but then Hamilton tipped his chin down in acceptance of her offer. Suddenly, she didn’t regret her asking at all. In fact, she couldn’t stop grinning as she led the way toward the stairs.
“Hope you don’t mind,” she said as they started to climb. “We’re just on the third floor, and sometimes this and the walk we just did is the only exercise I get to do all day.”
“I don’t mind.” They reached the landing and swung around to climb the next flight of stairs. “I would think you’d get quite a bit of exercise at work.”
“Running back and forth between the kitchen and front, you mean?” When he gave a slight nod, she continued. “I do, but I’m also surrounded by cookies. I don’t think exercise counts if you’re eating in the middle of it.”
At the mention of cookies, he shifted the box in his grip.
“Don’t worry.” She reached out to pat his biceps. It was big and solid and flexed under her touch, and it took considerable willpower not to leave her hand there. Somehow, she managed to drop her hand before a friendly pat turned into inappropriate fondling. “Exercise counts if you’re just holding the cookies. It’s only voided if you’re eating the cookies.”
“I’m considering eating the cookies,” he said. “If I ate them immediately after climbing these stairs, would that retroactively cancel the exercise?” His tone was so serious that it took her a moment to figure out that he was playing along. A giddy thrill ran through her, but she immediately clamped down on it, extinguishing any Hamilton-related excitement. The last time she’d gotten all mushy about him, he’d disappeared for days. She needed to learn from experience.
She couldn’t not play along, though—not when he was being all cute and silly in his uptight way. As she led the way to her apartment door, she pretended to consider his question. “As long as the cookie-eating and exercise are not concurrent, then the exercise is not voided.” She dropped her put-on stuffy manner. “Besides, you exercise so much, your body is probably crying out for more calories at all times.”
After unlocking the door, she pushed it open and then held it for Hamilton. He stepped inside and looked around. She briefly wondered what he thought of the place. It was furnished in an eclectic Ikea/thrift store/grandma’s-attic kind of way, but it was clean and cozy and colorful. For Leah, it was home.
“I don’t exercise that much,” he protested mildly, stepping farther into the living room. “I run six days a week and lift weights five times a week, alternating which muscles I focus on. It’s a reasonable exercise schedule.”
“Nope. That’s not reasonable at all.” Dropping her purse on a table by the door, she headed for her bedroom. “Normal people lift weights five times a year, that first week of January after getting a gym membership that they don’t use for the other fifty-one weeks.” When she glanced over her shoulder at him, he looked as if he wasn’t sure whether to smile at that or not. “Excuse me for a couple of minutes. I’m dying to change.”
His gaze flicked over her hoodie, tunic top and leggings. “Why? That looks comfortable.”
“It is, although it’s covered in flour everywhere the apron didn’t cover, and there’s been something sticky on my right sleeve for the past five hours or so, and I smell of every single thing I’ve baked since three this morning, which is not a good combination.”
He frowned. “I think you smell good.” Then he blushed. He actually blushed. It amazed Leah so much that she stopped dead right in front of her bedroom door.
There was an uncomfortable silence as Hamilton avoided her gaze and his face returned to its usual color. Finally, Leah had to break it. She couldn’t stand the awkwardness anymore, and she was still a bit dazed at seeing Mr. Hamilton turn red. “Um...thank you? I think? Right. So, make yourself at home, and I’ll be right out.”
She hurried into her room, swinging the door closed behind her. He thought she smelled good? She quickly put a kibosh on the excitement rising inside her. The man was addicted to sugar and pastry products. Of course he thought she smelled good. He’d probably eat her if she’d let him.
At that final thought, Leah’s face got so hot that she was pretty sure she was blushing harder than Hamilton just had. Putting all thoughts of her sexy landlord eating her out of her mind, she hurried to change. She wanted to go into full-on flip-out mode about what she was going to wear, but she didn’t let it happen. Instead, she forced herself to grab the first clean set of yoga pants, T-shirt and hoodie she could find. After dragging them on, she didn’t allow herself to look in a mirror. Instead, she took a deep breath, fanned her face with both hands and then opened her bedroom door.
Hamilton was right there in front of her, framed by the doorway. She took a step back. “Sorry. Did you need something?”
“No.”
“Then why were you... Never mind.” It didn’t matter why he was standing right by her bedroom door. If he’d been Jude—not that she ever would’ve invited Jude into her apartment—then she would’ve been bothered. Hamilton, though... Hamilton felt safe. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes.”
“Me, too.” She slipped past him and headed for the kitchen. “Do you like chicken?”
“Yes.” He followed her to just inside the doorway. “You don’t need to cook for me, though.”
“I don’t mind.” Peering inside at the contents of the fridge, she smiled with satisfaction. For once, she actually had ingredients that fit together. There were too many nights when she and Annabelle were forced to improvise to avoid a last-minute trip to the store. The results of those experimental dinners were mixed. “How do you feel about fajitas?”
“I have nothing against them. They usually taste good.”
“Fajitas it is!” She pulled out the chicken breasts and raided the veggie drawer, finding onions and a host of different peppers. After washing the vegetables, she put them on a cutting board in front of Hamilton. Holding a knife toward him, handle-first, she said, “Slice, please.”
Just like at the bakery, he took orders well. As she started prepping the marinade, he removed the stems and seeds with the exact precision he did everything. Leah wondered if that trait carried over into bed. The thought distracted her so much that she almost cut off her finger. After that near-mishap, she focused on squeezing lime juice.
“Do you like cooking?” he asked once the perfectly sliced veggies were sizzling in the pan and the strips of chicken were soaking in marinade.
“I don’t mind it,” she said after considering the question for a moment. “Not like my grandma did. It’s relaxing, in a way. After being so precise all day at the bakery, I can get a little sloppy.”
He looked up, the knife he’d been washing still in one hand and the sudsy scrubber in the other. His expression was hard to read—perhaps curious and appalled? Each time that Leah thought she was getting to know him a little, he threw a new reaction her direction, and she found herself watching him like he was a type of new species that she’d just discovered and she wasn’t sure if he wanted to lick her face or bite off her hand.
“What is it?” she finally asked after having no luck translating his face language.
“Do you like being...sloppy?” He put an odd emphasis on sloppy.
“Sometimes.” Giving up on trying to read him, she just answered the question honestly. “At the bakery, there’s usually no room for sloppiness. Everything has to be done exactly as it should: recipes, baking, decorating cakes or cookies—you’ve seen what happens when decorating goes wrong.”
Hamilton winced. It was tiny, but it was definitely a wince. “Yes. Those cookies were horrendous.”
“Exactly. Even cleaning has to be done right, or I could give a whole bunch of people food poisoning, and I don’t want to do that. Okay, maybe I wouldn’t cry if Jude had a very mild case, but I wouldn’t want anyone else to get it.” She dumped the steaming veggies into a bowl and reached for the marinating chicken. “After having to be perfect all day, it’s nice to be sloppy.”
He was quiet for a few moments. “I don’t know if I could enjoy being sloppy. It makes me...uneasy.”
Looking up from the chicken, she narrowed her eyes at Hamilton as her mouth curved up at the corners. Even though she couldn’t see herself, Leah knew that it was a wicked smile, just by how alarmed he looked. “That sounds like a challenge.”
“No. It’s not a challenge.” He spoke quickly. “I misspoke. I have had sloppy experiences, and I do know that I could never enjoy them. I think we should change the subject now, before you come up with some ill-advised plan involving sloppiness.”
“When have you been sloppy?” she asked, skeptical but also absolutely curious. The idea of a messy Hamilton was appealing—hugely appealing. Almost uncomfortable amounts of appealing. She wasn’t sure why, but part of her really wanted to get him dirty.
“In Afghanistan.”
Leah could hear the chicken sizzling, but she kept her gaze on Hamilton. “Why was it sloppy?”
“At the outpost, conditions weren’t the best for staying clean.”
“Your vague generalities are just making me more curious.” She moved the chicken around so it didn’t burn, but most of her attention was still fixed on Hamilton.
He shifted, his body language obviously uncomfortable, although his expression was carefully neutral. “Sometimes we had hot water, but mostly we did not. All of our clothes had to be hand-washed. Daily showers weren’t available. Often, weekly showers were a luxury. Things got...” He paused, as if searching for the right word.
“Sloppy?” She cringed, trying to picture it—actually, trying to picture Hamilton in the middle of it. The military aspect, she could see. It was stamped all over him—in his posture, his protectiveness, his bossiness. The stinky part, though...the poor guy must have been miserable. “How did you stand it?”
“It was what it was.” He looked to the side, his gaze far away. “Being dirty was the least of our worries, especially after...” Catching himself before he finished the sentence, he focused on her again. “It’s amazing what a person can handle if they have to.”
Leah made an assenting sound as she studied him. Her curiosity was running rampant. She wanted to hear more about his time in Afghanistan, about his experiences and friends and what had made him go sad and silent. Despite her burning desire for more information, she didn’t let any of her multitude of questions escape. It felt too invasive to ask. If he wanted to share, then she would listen avidly, but she didn’t want to drag it out of him.
“Fajitas are ready.”
As they moved everything to the small kitchen table, Leah looked at the perfectly sliced veggies that were no less symmetrical after being cooked. She noticed how Hamilton neatly draped the paper towel she’d offered him instead of a napkin—since she was out—over his lap, and how he precisely filled his first tortilla in a way that Leah knew wouldn’t end up falling out on his plate or down his front.
It didn’t bother her. In fact, she was starting to enjoy the care he took with everything. When she pictured a younger Hamilton, going weeks without a shower in a place far from home, she figured he earned every anal-retentive habit he had.
He looked up, catching her staring, and his eyebrows quirked up. In response, she smiled at him. “I’m glad you stayed, Ham. It’s nice. Having you here, I mean.”
Silently, he studied her for a long moment. She had a feeling he was checking her sincerity, which was understandable, since she gave him a hard time quite a lot. Meeting his gaze, she held it until his head dipped slightly in acknowledgment. “I’m glad I stayed, as well.”
That made her too happy. She gave herself a stern mental lecture, but the giddy whee! in her head drowned it out. Her crush on Hamilton was getting out of control. Worried that her feelings were written on her face for him to read, she ducked her head and took a bite of her fajita. As usual, she’d overestimated what a single tortilla could hold, and most of the contents spilled onto her plate.
She glanced up. Of course he was watching her. Pointing her almost empty rolled tortilla at him, she tried to give him a stern glare. Unfortunately, her insides were still fizzy with the knowledge that he wanted to be here with her, so she couldn’t quite pull off a quelling look. “Not a word, mister.”
His lips folded in as he raised his eyebrows in such an adorable “I would never” expression that she laughed, dropping the tortilla back on her plate.
“This happens to me. Every time.” She picked up her fork, resigned to having fajita salad.
“If you—”
“Are you about to give me instructions on eating?” she asked, interrupting him. “Because if you are, I need to warn you that it will not go well for you.”
He opened his mouth, closed it again, and then took a bite of fajita. They ate in silence for a few minutes, and Leah could tell it was killing him not to give her very specific instructions on how to create a perfectly neat fajita with prime portability. Amusement bubbled up inside her as she watched him.
He swallowed a bite. “If I could just—”
“Check yourself before you wreck yourself.”
“What?”
“I went old-school for that one.” She grinned at him. That bemused look he sometimes got—like right now—was growing on her. It made her want to hug him. Honestly, though, she kind of wanted to hug him all the time, cutely baffled look or no cutely baffled look. The thought of squeezing his broad, muscular frame, her front pressed to his, made heat start to curl in her belly like the first drift of smoke from a new campfire. She cleared her throat, knowing she had to get her mind away from hugging Hamilton or the campfire would blaze into a forest-destroying inferno shortly. “Tell me about your job.”
He eyed her as he chewed and then swallowed his current mouthful. “Why?”
“I’m interested.” Forking up some chicken and a pepper, she stuck it in her mouth. Belatedly, she realized that she now either had to chew quickly or talk with her mouth full in front of Hamilton, and the latter wasn’t really an option. He already thought she was extraordinarily messy, and he made her much too conscious of her manners. She compromised and stayed silent, gesturing with her fork in a “spill it” motion.
“But it’s boring.”
“To you or to others?”
“Others. I find it interesting.”
“I bet I will, too. Tell me.” She was pretty sure she could never be bored by anything Hamilton said. It seemed as if all he had to do was open his mouth and she was fascinated. Actually, he didn’t even have to say anything to hold her interest. She was becoming more than slightly obsessed with him, it seemed.
He stared at her, looking slightly lost. “I don’t know what you want to know.”
“Anything.” When that just made him look more hunted, she realized he needed some assistance. It was like he’d never talked about his work with anyone before. She wondered what he said on dates. Did he just let the woman talk, interrupting occasionally to give her proper eating instructions? The mental image amused her, but the thought of him dating also brought a surge of jealousy that she hurried to tamp down. “Do you work mostly in an office, or at home?”
“At the office.” His look of relief confirmed that he’d been lost, which she found so very intriguing. It was the most basic of shallow get-to-know-you conversations. Why was he so bad at it?
“In Denver?”
“Yes.”
“What company?”
“Gaits Dubois.”
“Oh! I’ve seen the building.” She immediately felt like a dummy for blurting that out. It was huge and would be hard to miss, plus it was only a mile or so from the bakery. “Your commute is not much longer than mine. Do you have an office or a cubicle? Or did they wedge your desk in the corner of the reception area?”
He gave her a strange look, as if trying to decide if she was joking or not. “An office.”
“Nice. Do you like the people you work with?”
He paused, and his pained expression was back. “Do I like them?”
It was fascinating and strange how hard he found these simple questions. “Well, I’m sure you don’t like all of them, since no one can get along with everyone—unless it’s a tiny bakery with three people—but what’s your general impression? Are the majority nice people, or do they lean more toward asshole-ness? Do you dread going into work because you might run into Lilah from Accounting, or do you linger in the break room, chatting with Gustavo from HR because he tells entertaining stories?” Somehow, with Hamilton, she doubted that it was the latter.
He was staring at her again. “They’re...fine, I suppose. I don’t really think about them that much.”
“How long have you worked there?”
“Four years.”
Leah choked a little. It was hard to imagine working at a place for four years and not knowing anything about the people there. “Well, it sounds like they don’t bug you, at least.”
“They tried when I was first hired,” he said, before finishing off the rest of his second fajita. She wasn’t surprised he inhaled healthy food almost as quickly as he ate the sweet stuff. As he started fixing his third, Leah smiled. It was strangely satisfying to watch him eat the food she’d made—whether that was cookies, coffee or fajitas. “One of them invited me to a company potluck.” His face showed his absolute horror at the idea. “Most people do not follow basic sanitation procedures. I would never eat food strangers prepared in their homes. They’ve stopped bothering me about that kind of nonsense now.”
Looking at his plate, Leah smirked. “I feel honored.”
“You’re not a stranger.” He took a bite, and she had to wait until he’d swallowed before he continued. “Also, I saw that your kitchen is clean, and I was here for the preparation. There was little risk in deciding to eat this.”
“Like I said,” she said, sitting back in her chair, admiring how much food he could put away. She’d had one fajita, and she was stuffed. “I’m honored.”
He eyed her with that penetrating stare, as if checking her motives, and then he turned back to his food. They were both quiet as he finished off his fourth fajita.
“You own other buildings, right?” she asked, only realizing after she said it how out-of-the-blue it would sound. “Besides the bakery?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you have the day job, then, if you don’t mind me being nosy?”
He looked a little startled by the question. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because you could stick to slumlording it up, and then you could do whatever you want with those extra forty—or, knowing you, eighty—hours a week.”
His face looked a little like it had when he’d gotten a glimpse of a Q-decorated cookie. “I don’t need all those extra hours. Besides, I enjoy my job.”
“I’ll take some of your extra hours.” She knew she needed to eventually hire another baker, or at the very least a Quentin-type person, but she had some improvements for the bakery she wanted to purchase first. She could deal with the sixteen-hour days and six-day weeks if it meant she could get a sheeter to roll out dough and a larger, better mixer and another bread rack. The idea of getting two days off or even longer for a vacation was hugely tempting, though. She might need to ask Q if he knew of a responsible person who could help out in the afternoons.
Hamilton was watching her with an arrested expression.
“What?” she asked, resisting the urge to touch her face and check if there was salsa on her cheek or—even worse—a booger hanging out of her nose.
“You want me to spend time with you?”
She blinked and then figured out how he could’ve arrived at that conclusion. It wasn’t wrong—in fact, it was quite definitely right—but she hadn’t meant exactly that. Even though she hadn’t meant to sound like a needy stalker, she still blushed. “Well, sure. You know I’d take all the hours you could spare and keep you trapped in the stiflingly hot kitchen.”
“I liked working with you.” As if the mention of the bakery had reminded him, he reached for the box of goodies he’d left on the corner of the table. Opening it, he held it out, offering it to her.
“Thank you, but those are yours, and you more than earned every crumb today.” Standing, she collected their plates and brought them over to the sink. On her way back, she snagged the cookie jar and placed it on the table. “In this apartment, the cookie jar is always full.”
His smile was small, but it still showed a faint trace of his dimple. “I knew I liked it here.”
She laughed harder than the joke warranted, but it was Hamilton, and he was trying to be funny. Somehow, that made it so much more entertaining.
After she ate two cookies and he inhaled about half of his stash, they cleaned up the kitchen together. Leah started off washing dishes with Hamilton drying, but when he handed back the fourth item for rewashing because of some invisible “spot,” she insisted they switch places. He seemed much happier once he had control of the scrubber, and Leah didn’t mind that he took five minutes to wash a fork. She used that time to watch him.
Since the first day she’d met him six months ago, after he’d bought the building her bakery was in, she’d known he was hot. She wasn’t blind, after all. It was different now, though. Before, he’d been attractive in the same way a famous actor or a married man or a priest was attractive—it was fun to look, but she didn’t have a chance in hell of doing anything more than that. Now that he was in her kitchen, frowning as he scrubbed at a water glass, trying to clean off a smudge only he could see, he wasn’t just objectively and remotely handsome. He was beautiful, and he was within reach. All she had to do was grab him.
It was tempting—he was tempting—but what if she was reading the signals wrong? It wasn’t like she’d had a ton of experience. She’d dated, even had a few long-term boyfriends, but she didn’t consider herself to be an expert on the mating behavior of men. Even if she had been, it was Hamilton. Even the most experienced dater would be baffled by his confusing signals.
“What?” he asked, and Leah realized that he was holding the glass out to her.
She accepted it. “You sure it’s clean?”
“Why? Do you see something?” He reached for it, as if to take it back, and she turned, blocking him with her body as she clutched the wet glass to her chest like it was a prize.
“No! I was kidding. It’s sparkling it’s so clean. I’ve never seen a cleaner glass.” Hurrying to dry it with the towel, she moved to put it in the cupboard before he could snatch it away from her and scrub at it for another half hour. He still looked at her with suspicion, as if he thought she’d hidden some smudge from him. “That it?”
“Yes.” As he drained and cleaned the sink, she wiped down the table and counters. Even after she’d finished, he was still scrubbing at the stainless-steel sink.
“Come on,” she said, removing the scrubber from his hand and putting it on the back of the sink to dry.
“Wait, I’m not finished.”
“Yes, you are.” Grabbing the dish towel, she dried off his hands one at a time. Although she meant to be brisk about it, she couldn’t help lingering. His palms were wide and his fingers long. The calluses were a surprise. With his office job, she’d expected him to have soft hands. She switched to the other, and, for a guy who’d just been protesting that he wasn’t done, he gave it to her willingly—even eagerly. Drying turned into a massage, as she kneaded the base of his palm and gently tugged at each finger.
A distant door slammed, probably a neighbor getting home, and Leah was jerked back to reality. “Oh, um...you’re dry.” She turned away to hang up the towel so she could hide her blush. She’d basically been fondling him, acting not only like a stalker, but like a stalker with a hand fetish.
When she couldn’t pretend like she was arranging the dish towel anymore, she turned back around to see that he hadn’t moved. He was watching her with a guarded expression—one of the many mysterious looks of Anthony Fitzgerald Hamilton III.
She opened her mouth, not sure if she was going to apologize for being a hand-touching freak or invite him into her bedroom so she could see what those long, tough fingers could do to her. What came out was neither of those options.
“Want to watch a movie?”
He paused, and her heart rate sped up. Maybe he just wanted to escape. Maybe he’d come in to be polite, and now she’d trapped him there and forced him to let her play with his digits. “Yes.”
His answer brought all of her panicky thoughts to a screeching halt. Yes? Common sense started seeping back into her brain. Of course she hadn’t dragged him inside against his will. Hamilton never did anything he didn’t want to do. He certainly would never stay just to be polite—he was never polite.
“Okay. Good.” As her brain slowed down to normal time and reason returned, she was able to function again, and she led the way into the living room. Plopping onto the couch, she reached for the remote. “What kind of movies do you like?”
“Documentaries. Historical ones.”
“Okay.” Now she was going to have to sit through an analysis of Grover Cleveland’s reaction to the Panic of 1893 or something similar that would not in any way distract her from the fact that Hamilton had sat down right next to her. He was going to be breathing and existing and everything, and he was going to do these things while he was right there where she could see him and hear him and smell him. Oh God, she could smell him, and he smelled amazing. Once in a while, she was completely down for a history-centered nerd-fest, but now was not the time. “What else do you like? Think more entertainment and less enrichment.”
When he didn’t offer any other suggestions, she started scanning through the Netflix options.
“Nope, nope, nope, hell no—” that was for a sex-heavy romance “—nope, nope, hang on. How about this one? It’s action, but there’s supposed to be some humor in it, too. Plus, the main actor’s a hottie. Have you seen it?”
“Not yet.” He was frowning at the screen, but he gave one of his abrupt nods. “This is fine.”
“Sure? We could find something about the weapons used in World War One or the British occupation of India, if you’d prefer.” When his face lit up, she hurried to start the movie before he could take her up on it. Her stupid sense of politeness was going to get her in trouble. She needed a distraction. Without one, she was going to start rubbing all over Hamilton like an attention-starved house cat.
Pushing away that mental image, she settled back against the cushions, her eyes fixed to the screen. Do not cuddle him, Leah. He smelled really good, though, like cookies and man. No! Stop it. Stop smelling him. No touching.
It took a huge effort, but she managed to keep her gaze and hands off of him. Gradually, she got sucked into the story, and resisting Hamilton got easier. When the credits started rolling, she turned to him.
“What did you...” She trailed off when she saw he was sleeping, still sitting up with his head lolling on the cushions in what looked like a very uncomfortable way. Asleep, he looked a lot younger, closer to thirty than forty, like she’d assumed he was. It was the first time she’d seen him slouch in any way, and the relaxed sprawl suited him, made him seem vulnerable and sweeter than candy. His face had lost its usual stern lines, and the hard line of his mouth had softened. His lips were nice, fuller than she thought they were, since they were generally flattened in irritation around her.
Reaching out to wake him up, she hesitated before her hand touched his arm. He was at peace, and she hated to disturb that. Instead, she withdrew her arm and stood, tiptoeing to her bedroom. Grabbing a pillow and the quilt her grandma’s friend had made, she slipped back into the living room.
In her short absence, he’d shifted sideways so his head rested on the arm even as his feet stayed on the floor. Carefully lifting his head, she tucked the pillow underneath, and his eyes cracked open.
“Feel free to sleep here,” she said in a whisper, not sure if he was awake or just in that semi-conscious torpor where he looked aware but wouldn’t remember it in the morning. Crouching, she pulled off his shoes and eased his legs onto the couch. His slitted gaze followed her, but he didn’t say anything as she spread the quilt over him. It was hard to resist the urge to tuck it around him, but she reminded herself that Hamilton was her grown-ass landlord, not a five-year-old.
Even though his eyes were partially open, he still had that relaxed, sweet look. Leah ran a hand over his neatly trimmed and always perfect hair. It was silky under her fingers, and he closed his eyes as her fingers lingered, stroking through the strands.
“Goodnight.” Leaning down, she kissed his cheek, right where his dimple would be if he were smiling. Her mouth wanted to linger on his bristled cheek, but she forced herself to straighten. It was bad enough that she’d petted him and given him a peck when he’d been almost sleeping. She needed to stop touching him and leave the room before her willpower failed her. Who knew what she’d do to him next?
Her imagination provided plenty of X-rated options, and she clamped down on her thoughts as she hurried into her bedroom. Despite it being past her bedtime and knowing that she had to get up painfully early, her skin was buzzing where she’d touched him. Her fingers and her lips felt hot and electrified, and it took several tries before she could write a text to Annabelle that made sense.
If you come home and find a man on our couch, don’t be alarmed.
It only took a few seconds before Leah’s phone beeped with a return text. With a glance at the paper-thin bedroom door, she muted her notifications.
I won’t, if I’m ever allowed to leave this hell known as “work.” Curious, perhaps, but not alarmed.
Leah grinned. It’s just Ham.
Oh, just your gorgeous landlord? The one you have a huuuuge crush on? That Ham?
Please. I don’t have a huuuuge crush.
So?
What?
Deeeetails!!
Later. Full accounting, I promise.
I’ll hold you to that.
Leah knew from experience that her roommate would indeed drag every salacious—and not so salacious—detail out of her. Don’t let the dick keep you too long. You need to rest, and Ham might wake up and leave. You need to see him sleeping, AnnaB. He’s adorable.
You’re staring at him while he’s sleeping? Creeper.
Yes.
Ha! Okay, okay. I’ll be home soon, and I promise to check out your stalkee.
The text conversation with Annabelle calmed her, bringing her down from her Hamilton-based high. She was still smiling, though, and she had a feeling it would be a while before she stopped.
* * *
The mattress shifted, and Leah stirred. Only half-awake, her dreams merged with reality, and she wasn’t sure if she’d really been jostled or had just imagined it. When a heavy arm wrapped around her, dragging her against the large male body behind her, her eyes popped open.
She was awake now. Fully, fully awake.
“What?” she muttered, trying to figure out who was cuddling her and why. Turning her head, she got a glimpse of a familiar stubble-coated jaw and gorgeous mouth before Hamilton buried his face in her neck. After that, all she could see was short, light-colored hair that was more mussed than she’d ever seen before. He pulled her even closer, plastering his front against her back, and tossed a leg over hers.
She was completely pinned, clutched against him like a teddy bear. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was...weird. Why was her landlord/possible new friend/occasional cookie bitch in her bed, snuggling with her? If she wasn’t getting immediate, firsthand knowledge of it right now, she never would’ve pegged Hamilton as a cuddle bunny, but he was. He so, so was.
Shaking off her bemusement, she said quietly, “Ham?”
His arms tightened, and he burrowed his face against her neck. The sandpapery rub of his scruff, along with the brush of his warm breath on her throat, made her skin heat at the same time that she shivered. This felt too good, but it also wasn’t right. Her careful, fussy landlord wouldn’t act like this. He had to be sleepwalking or something.
The thought made her uncomfortable, since she was tempted to just enjoy the cuddle, but she didn’t want to take advantage of Hamilton’s unconscious self. “Hamilton. What are you doing?”
“Shh.” He turned his face without lifting his head, and his lips brushed across her throat. It felt like an electric shock had zapped her, and she jerked a little in his hold. “Shush, LeeLee. Sleep.”
Leah went still, staring into the dim light and blinking in confusion. There was so much that her brain couldn’t process. First of all—LeeLee? She had to assume he was talking about her, unless there was someone else in his life who had a name very close to Leah. Although it was sweet—maybe?—that he’d given her a nickname, the nickname itself made her sound like a panda. Secondly, he knew who she was. He wasn’t mistakenly snuggling with her while thinking it was someone else, so that was a relief. That fact tempted her to give in and go back to sleep while enjoying the feel of his arms—well, more like his entire body—around her.
As she hesitated, he shifted. Now he was even more wrapped around her, as well as halfway on top of her. It should feel claustrophobic and stifling, but Leah felt warm and safe...and horny. Just a hand on his biceps had been enough to make her wet, so this full-body contact made her feel like she was going to melt into a puddle, and not just because he was putting off enough heat to melt an iceberg. It was getting hard not to turn toward him, to press herself against him, so much so that she started getting desperate. If he didn’t move soon, she was going to start humping his leg.
“Ham!” she said loudly, and he jolted behind her.
Now it was obvious that he was awake—and mortified. He went completely rigid, his arms clamping around her like steel bands. For some reason, he kept his head pressed into her neck for several moments, and she felt his breath, rapid and harsh, against her skin. Her body, contrary as always, really enjoyed the feel of each hot, damp puff, and she had to pull her brain away from that distraction.
“What are you doing in here?” she asked, her voice quieter now that she knew he was up.
“I’m...not sure.” His voice was back to Hamilton’s usual precise, even phrasing, and Leah was a little sad that she wouldn’t hear him grumble “LeeLee” again. “I take it that this is not my bedroom.”
“You take it right. This is my room. My...bed. In my apartment.” It made it more awkward that he hadn’t released her yet, although he did raise his head. Now her neck was cold. “It’s fine. I assumed you were sleepwalking, but I didn’t want to take advantage—I mean, I didn’t want you to be where you didn’t want to be...” Since she was just getting her words into a muddle, she stopped talking.
“My apologies,” he said, sounding stiffer than he had when they’d first met. “I shouldn’t have fallen asleep on your couch, much less come in here. Normally, I don’t sleep much, so this is...unusual for me.”
That struck her as funny. Her laugh expanded her chest, unintentionally pressing her breasts against Hamilton’s arm. “What? You don’t normally wander into random women’s beds?”
“No, I...” He sounded strained and a bit breathless. “I don’t. Normally.”
“Okay.” Now that he was awake and still holding her, she was enjoying the contact excessively. He might not have moved because he was in shock, but at least she wasn’t rubbing up on him against his will—or while he was unconscious. “I don’t mind that you’re in here. You’re welcome to stay for...” She glanced at the glowing clock and made a face. “Ugh. You’re welcome to stay in here for fifty-eight minutes, which is when my alarm is going to go off, telling me that I have to get up at a pathetically early hour. The sofa can’t be that comfortable to sleep on, especially since you’re so huge.” For some reason, commenting on his size made her flush with heat—from embarrassment, rather than arousal.
“I should go.” His arms finally started to loosen, and Leah knew he was about to pull away. She instinctively grabbed his hand, not wanting him to go.
“Wait a little longer,” she said. “Then you can walk me to work.”
He paused for a long moment, and she held her breath. It was a little ridiculous, how much she hoped he’d stay. Obviously, her latest bout of celibacy had continued too long if she was this desperate for a cuddle. She’d have to start demanding that Annabelle give her more frequent hugs, just to fill that touch-hungry hole inside her that kept demanding she feel Hamilton up.
Her fingers slid up his forearm and back down again. It was as if her hand was completely independent of her brain, which was frankly horrified by her action. She was fondling Hamilton. “Please stay.” Obviously, her mouth wasn’t consulting her head about anything either.
He sighed heavily, his chest pressing harder against her back for a second before his exhale blew against her cheek. “Fine.”
“Thank you.” Warmth flowed through her at his answer. Not only did she get to continue cuddling with Hamilton, but she also had company on the walk back to the bakery. Despite her earlier assurances that she didn’t think Jude would bother her in the wee hours, the possibility was there, and she knew she’d be as jumpy as a mouse in a cat circus if she were to walk there by herself.
She ran her hand up and down his arm again, marveling at the coiled strength beneath his skin. Taking another deep breath, he tightened his arms again. The tiny space that had opened up between them disappeared, leaving them closer than before. Slowly, he dropped his head, easing it back into its previous spot against her neck. Her lower region was reacting wildly to the contact with him, softening and moistening, getting ready for something that wouldn’t happen—at least not in the next fifty-some minutes.
His breaths slowed, each one hitting her neck right where her pulse throbbed, and she wondered if he’d fallen asleep again. The thought brought a mixture of disappointment and happiness that he was getting some rest. He’d just mentioned having insomnia, and she’d suspected it before. After all, there weren’t many people who got up to run at 5:00 a.m.—and sometimes much earlier than that.
Feeling a rush of sympathy for him, she moved her hand from his arm to his closely cropped head. As she stroked his short but silky hair, he went still. He didn’t even breathe, and she missed the warm dampness against her neck. His reaction told her that he hadn’t been asleep. She found herself holding her breath along with him, her hand unmoving on his head, until he finally exhaled. It felt as if all the air in his body was leaving, his muscles softening and relaxing until he was sinking more heavily against her.
When her head started swimming with a desperate need for air, she sucked in a breath. Her chest rose, pressing against his forearm, and then retreated as she exhaled. His weight was pressing her into the mattress even more now, but she still didn’t mind. In fact, she loved that he’d relaxed against her, that he was comfortable enough to let go, especially since he seemed like the type who very rarely allowed himself to relax. No wonder the poor man couldn’t sleep.
Her fingers started stroking again, smoothing the short strands and then ruffling them lightly, exploring the contours of his skull and ears.
“LeeLee,” he muttered, tucking her even more tightly against him, and Leah smiled.
Panda-worthy or not, the nickname came from Hamilton, so it made her happy.