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“Something about frosting.”
I narrow my eyes.
“You’re lying.”
“Probably.”
I throw a dish towel at him.
He catches it.
And laughs.
Not a snort. Not a reluctant little breath.
An actual laugh.
I stare.
He notices immediately.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Autumn.”
I flip a pancake.
“You used to like that about me.”
“Like what?”
“That I’m a menace.”
He sets down his mug and walks toward me.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Until I’m backed against the counter with a spatula in one hand and a very large, very distracting man standing inches away.
His gaze travels over my face.
“Still do.”
My breath catches.
He reaches past me, flips the pancake I forgot about, and steps away.
“You’re burning breakfast, sweetheart.”
I look at the skillet.
Damn him.
An hour later, Grayson tosses me a black motorcycle helmet.
