He leans against the door frame, one arm propped up, his bulging bicep flexed, like he’s auditioning for Cowboy GQ. All effortless charm, lick-able, way-too-perfect abs with that deep V running down his…
Focus, Mia!
I snap back to reality, remembering why I'm standing on his porch in wet slippers at stupid ‘o’clock in the morning.
“You!” I jab a finger at his chest. “You fatberged me!”
His brow arches. Then—he chuckles.
Chuckles! The absolute audacity of this man!
My mind is in a rage, but the sound makes something traitorous and warm fizz low in my stomach.
“Fatberged?” he repeats, like he’s sampling the word on his tongue, amused and way too smug about it.
“That’s real cute, Mia…” He smirk deepens. “but darlin’, you and I have twoverydifferent words for what I did to you.”
My jaw drops. “Excuse me?! Did you just turn my plumbing disaster into a sex joke?” I huff.
“What?” He shrugs, utterly unapologetic. “Not my fault you make every word sound dirty Princess”.
He steps forward, his dark gaze skimming my pj’s, down my legs, and back up to my eyes with agonizing slowness.
“Gotta say, never seen someone look so gorgeous while actively plotting my murder.” His voice dips lower. “You got rage down to an art form, angel.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were flirting with me.... Violently.”
I snort. “Violently is right.”
He grins. “And damn, you're cute when you're wet...” his eyes slide deliberately down my body, “...and furious.”
Our gazes lock.
His lip twitch and oh, we both catch the double meaning.
“Ugh” I damn near growl refusing to take a step back, jabbing a finger in his direction mere millimeters from his annoyingly sculpted perfect pec.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Grant. You...you poured your greasy…greasedown the drains which clogged the pipes and flooded my whole cottage. Now, are you going to take responsibility for this or not?” I demand.
My arms crossed, and my body vibrating with barely restrained rage.
Meanwhile, he just stands there looking maddeningly dry…maddeningly shirtless and entirely unbothered.His brown eyessweep over me again, pausing for a moment at my breasts that are now pushed up above my crossed arms, and that insufferable smirk returns—equal parts amusement and something darker, deeper—something I refuse to acknowledge right now.
And with that infuriatingly slow, smoldering once-over, I realize he hasn’t heard a single word I’ve said.
My chest heaves “I—are you even listening?!” I huff.
His grin widens. Of course it does. “Tell you what,” he continues, leaning just a little closer, voice low and dangerous, “how ’bout I take full responsibility… after I check you for water damage.”
“You are the actual worst,” I snap, heat flooding my cheeks—and a few other less cooperative places.
“Nope,” he says with a wink. “I’m just the one you storm to, dripping wet, ready to murder me. Admit it, angel. You missed me.”
My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. No words.
I uncross my arms with a dramatic flair and slam my hands onto my hips, channeling every ounce of fed-up energy I have into a full-bodied glare.
He quirks a brow and sweeps a hand toward me like he’s presenting a damn stage. “By all means,Princess. Enlighten me and explain.” His head tilts slightly, that smug patience written all over his face.
