Chapter 32
Jack
There I was, screwing in the crib railings, feeling vaguely domestic and competent, when I realized I was not alone.
Guess who's also here assembling the crib?
Mr. Guard Dog himself.
We're both crouched on opposite sides of this half-assembled baby jail, pretending this is normal. It's not normal. The fragile truce between us is held together with screws and Ciel's pretty face right now.
But honestly? What I'm really interested in is Nolan's closet situation.
Or lack thereof.
The man owns exactly three categories of clothing: one pair of faded joggers, those obscene shorts that leave very little to the imagination, and tank tops that look like they've melded into his skin. That's it.
I realize it's technically my fault—those shorts and tank tops? Yeah, I bought them for Ciel during that mall trip. Nolan's just…making do. Nothing wrong with that.
It's my bloody libido's fault for noticing how well they fit.
He finishes tightening his side of the railing with deadly focus. Meanwhile, I keep letting my eyes wander where they have no business wandering.
The way his tank top stretches across his chest. The muscles in his arms flexing as he works. Men have chests too, apparently. Great. Add that to the list of things I'm learning about myself.
"Pass me the hammer," Nolan says, voice flat. He's standing with his hands on his hips, glaring like a very scary PTA mom. All I can think is how unfair it is that a plain white tank top is doing that much for him.
The hammer is literally right next to me.
"What hammer?" I ask innocently, sitting cross-legged on the floor.
I know what I'm doing. I can't help it. He makes it too easy.
Nolan's eyes narrow. He's usually a stoic wall, except with Ciel or when I poke him like this. And God, watching that mask crack is addictive.
"The hammer that's within arm's reach of you," he says slowly, like he's explaining math to a toddler.
I glance lazily to my right, pick up nothing, and look back at him.
"Huh. Don't see it."
He exhales through his nose. If patience was gasoline, his tank is empty.
"Jack."
I shrug. "I don't see any hammer."
He exhales like he's aged twenty years dealing with me and stalks over. He bends down to grab it, and my self-control exits the chat. I slide the hammer to my other side, just out of reach.
He freezes. Turns his glare on me like it's a weapon. "Give me the hammer."
"Get it," I say, smirking.
He leans closer to grab it, and instead of handing it over like an adult, I grab his wrist. His muscles tense immediately, trying to pull back, but I don't budge.
"Don't be an asshole," he grits out.
"What if I want to be an asshole, huh, little guard dog? Gonna bite me?" The grin stretching my face is downright villainous. I can't help it. He makes this so easy.
His scowl deepens. "Does Ciel know you're like this when he's not looking?"
Low blow. But fair.
"Of course not," I shoot back.
"I'm trying to impresshim."
Then I give his wrist the tiniest tug. Just enough to make him lose his balance.
And down he goes—kneeling in front of me, glaring like he wants to end my bloodline. It would be terrifying if it wasn't so… distracting.
"Get. Off. The hammer," he growls.
"Get it yourself," I counter, lounging back on my hands.
His blue eyes flash, and suddenly I realize two things:
One, he's absurdly attractive when he's annoyed.
Two, I have a death wish.
He lunges. I twist. He ends up pinned beneath me on the floor, his wrists caught in one hand above his head. Like a low budget villain.
We both freeze.
His chest presses against mine with every sharp breath. I can smell clean sweat, soap, something sharp and warm. His icy eyes lock on mine, blazing with fury or something else I don't want to name.
He struggles—He's strong—but I don't budge.
And wow.
He really is muscular. Look at those arms.
"Get off me," he snarls, eyes blazing.
His eyes are ridiculous. The prettiest blue I've ever seen. Like, if he weren't currently glaring at me with enough rage to vaporize a small village, I might actually compliment him.
"I don't know," I say slowly, smirking despite the fact that this is probably how I die.
"I think I kind of like you like this."
"Jack," he warns.
My free hand betrays me. It skims down his throat, over his collarbone, lingers at the hem of his tank top. He tenses, and I know I should stop.
I don't.
"I think you kind of like you like this a little, don't you?" I tease, my hand sliding just under his shirt, fingertips brushing heated skin.
For exactly one and a half seconds.
Because that's how long it takes Nolan to knee me in the gut like a trained assassin.
I wheeze. Like, actually wheeze. My whole body folds like a cheap lawn chair. I roll off him, clutching my stomach and questioning every life choice I've ever made.
Nolan stands, completely unbothered, adjusting his shirt like I didn't just grope him on the nursery floor. He looks down at me, his face the picture of calm murder.
"I think you can finish the crib all on your own," he says flatly.
Then he turns and walks out, and even through the pain, I can't help noticing the view.
The ridiculously unfair view.
I'm still groaning, still half-curled on the carpet, and all I can think is:
Totally worth it.