My stomach flips, but before I can shoot something back, he leans in closer—eyes locked on mine.
“But don’t use my beast to distract from the point.” His voice dips low, rough and direct. “Why do you have night terrors?”
I lean back against the counter, elbows pressing into the cool marble, the distance between us suddenly feeling tighter. His hands move to my hips, settling there—heavy, and warm.
“None of your business, pretty boy,” I say, light and flippant.
Landon lowers his head and presses a kiss to the flat of my belly—gentle, infuriatingly tender.
“Awe,” he says, lips brushing my skin. “You say such nice things when you’re being evasive.”
I roll my eyes, but my fingers twitch against the counter. His touch shouldn’t feel like this. It shouldn’t make me want to lean in instead of push away.
What is wrong with me? What is it with me and wanting Landon to be near? His hands on me, his voice in my ear, the weight of his attention. Why do I want him? Why—how—in the course of three weeks have I been attracted to two different men, when I haven’t wanted a man in years?
Not since...my throat tightens. Not since him.
The memory claws up before I can stop it—uninvited, cold, sharp. Hands that weren’t gentle. Words that weren’t sweet. Eyes that looked through me like I was nothing but a body to fill a silence.
I push Landon back, and he doesn’t fight me. My voice comes out harsher than I intend it to, and I avoid his eyes.
“You don’t get to psychoanalyze me just because I kissed you once.”
“I’m not psychoanalyzing you, but something is wrong, Peach.” He takes another step forward. “And I know--”
“You don’t know me just because youwatchme,” I snarl, my knees snapping shut, closing him out. “That doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t make you special.”
It’s cruel. I know it before the words finish leaving my mouth.
He picks both of his hands up and nods. “Fine,Peach,don’t tell me.”
Without another word, he turns and walks to the other counter, picking up the pan of Parker House rolls I abandoned. He works in silence. No flour tossed in the air. No smirk. No jokes. Just his hands moving steadily through the dough like he’s trying to ground himself in the only thing that won’t push him away.
I stay where I am, perched on the counter, arms curled in close. My chest tightens. My fingertips dig into the cool surface behind me. I hate how loud it feels now—the quiet between us. I hate that he’s not trying to break my walls down by force. I hate how far away he is from me.
And underneath all that anger I used to push him back…I feel guilt. Because I meant it when I said he’s the only man, other than Tommy, that I let touch me.
And the terrifying part? He makes it feel okay.
Not just okay—safe.
It’s not supposed to be like that. Men don’t feel safe. They feel like risk. Like control. Like the weight of too many memories I’ve locked away in boxes I refuse to open.
But Landon…Landon slips past all that. He came into my life with this fierce need to protect and care for me, and something in me…something primal believes him.
He slides the tray into the oven and wipes his hands clean, still not looking at me.
“I can’t talk about it,” I whisper, my voice so low I barely recognize it. My eyes stay locked on the floor. “Just… next time I scream… wake me up.”
His head lifts. Our eyes meet. “Are you sure?”
“I’d rather you touch me,” I say, barely above a whisper. “I’d rather be awake with you… than asleep with him.”
His body tenses, the minute I say ir—like part of him wants to step forward, and the other part knows better. But he says nothing. Just watches me.
I slide off the counter, my feet hitting the tile with a quiet thud. Exhaustion starts to drag at me now, slow and sudden, like my body is catching up to everything I’ve been pretending I’m not feeling.
“The Parker rolls need thirty-five minutes in the oven,” I mutter, brushing the flour off my hands. “And there’s peach butter in the fridge.”
