I hesitate, and Locke repeats the question.
I stare at his earnest eyes, the familiar features of his face that make me feel more confident in myself than I’ve ever felt with anyone, but also more vulnerable.
What do you want it to mean, Greer?
This time I don’t let my mind answer. I let my heart.
“I’d love it.”
His only response is a grin.
“Snacks,” Locke declares, pausing Elf just before the opening credits run. He rubs his hands together and looks around my apartment. “We need snacks.”
“A man after my own heart.” I blurt it out without thinking, then gulp back my words. I’m still getting over the fact that Locke is here, in my house, among my books, on purpose, and I’m so flustered I can’t think straight.
Locke, though, just smiles at me from his spot on my sofa. “What are the options?”
I make a face. “In fairness,” I start, holding up a hand, “I wasn’t prepared for company. It’s mostly dessert.”
“Well, let’s see what you’ve got.” Locke leads the way toward my kitchen and pulls open the fridge. He bends over to peruse the contents, and cold air puffs into the room, making me shiver. I still haven’t changed out of my thin sweater and bralette, and the chill tightens my nipples, but when Locke glances over his shoulder at me and does a double take, I’m not sad about it. Not even one bit.
I curl my bare toes against the tile floor and fold a smile between my teeth. “See anything you like?”
His voice comes out husky, his eyes dark. “Hell, yes.”
For a second I think he means me—I want him to mean me—but then he cracks a grin and pulls a carton of ice cream from behind his back and wiggles it in my direction.
I try to wipe the disappointment off my face, and I drop my hands to my hips and shake my head. “I thought you were trying to keep me healthy with your daily pushups routine.” I’ve actually been doing the pushups, too. Despite how silly I felt about them at the start, there’s something kind of nice about getting stronger each day.
“Ah, yes,” Locke says, but he sets the carton on the counter anyway. He lowers his voice suggestively. “But it is the season of indulgence.”
I spin away from him and his stupid, frustrating face to grab two bowls from my cabinets. “Ice cream it is.”
“Do you happen to have tahini?”
Tahini?
“Um.” I cock my head to the side. “I think so…?”
He grins like he’s sharing a secret. “It’s delicious on vanilla ice cream. Kind of like peanut butter but a thousand times better.”
I smirk at him. “That’s so hipster of you.”
“Don’t knock it until you try it. It’s going to blow your mind.”
A laugh bubbles up my throat. “Well, then obviously I need to try it. What are we waiting for?”
I move past him and root behind an expired tub of Greek yogurt to pluck a jar of Molly’s tahini from the fridge. She won’t be mad about a missing spoonful sacrificed for a good cause.
Locke opens the lid of the tub and glances around. “Spoon?”
I gesture at the drawer behind him, and he fishes out a spoon like he belongs here, like we’ve done this before. Then he pops off the lid and frowns at the oily liquid floating on top of a layer of sesame sediment.
I look inside the container and grimace. I know tahini tastes good and all, but right now it looks like something you scrape from the bottom of a lake.
Locke starts to stir the contents of the jar, and I can’t help staring. I drink in the sight of the flexing muscles in his forearm as they dance beneath his tanned skin. His eyes darken with concentration, and his lips part ever so slightly and—
“Shit!”
A spray of tahini oil launches out of the container and splashes onto the counter between us. Locke sets down the spoon, licks the side of his hand, and then inspects his pants.
“Crap. It got me.”
Sure enough, an oily stain spreads on the front of his light gray pants.
Locke grabs a paper towel and runs it under the tap, then dabs at the fabric.
“You need to put dish soap on that and scrub, or it’s going to leave a stain.”
He twists his mouth. “Really?”
“As someone who’s lost many an article of clothing in my battle with food, take it from me when I say if you don’t act quickly, those pants are going to become a casualty.”
“If you say so. But I can’t scrub them when they’re on me.” He drops his hands to the button of his pants and lets them hover there for a minute.
Oh shit.
My lungs squeeze so tight I can’t breathe.
He’s going to take them off.
My throat goes dry and my palms sweat, and I look away with burning cheeks as Locke flicks them open. My heartbeat roars in my ears, but it’s not quite loud enough to cover the seductive sound of his zipper sliding down and the fabric pooling on my tile floor.
Lachlan Mills is half naked in my kitchen and I can feel his eyes on my face like a dare, but if I look up, my body’s going to tell him everything I’ve been trying to hide.
Oh fuck. Oh fuuuck.
I’m not supposed to look. I’m not supposed to lust after my best friend like a horny high schooler. But I want to look and I’m lusting after him and I’m absolutely pinned to the spot until the kitchen tap squirts on.
The room fills with the sound of rushing water, and Locke’s cheerful whistle floats my way. “Do you have something I can scrub this with?”
I edge around the kitchen island, and then I’m forced to look because his strong, firm legs block the cabinet where I keep the scrub brush. My eyes slide over the honed muscles of his back, the solid, sculpted planes of his body. His taut, delicious
