Chapter 11 #3
What is his deal? Colt had always been difficult—stern, perfectionist, perpetually scowling at the world like it had personally offended him—but it hadn’t always been like this between us.
There was a time, years ago, when he’d been different.
Not warm exactly—Colt and “warm” existed in separate universes—but protective, almost gentle in his own gruff way.
He’d taught me how to ride a bike, how to stand up to bullies, how to throw a decent punch (which I was seriously contemplating demonstrating right about now).
Then something changed. Three years ago, it was like a switch had flipped, and suddenly I became the focus of all his attention—not all of it negative, but all of it intense in a way that made my skin feel too tight.
It was like living with a particularly moody tiger who’d decided I was both fascinating and somehow worthy of constant surveillance.
His gaze swept over my room, nose wrinkling slightly. “Do you ever clean this place? It looks like a clothing bomb went off.”
“It’s a converted closet, in case you hadn’t noticed,” I shot back, instantly defensive. “Not all of us have the square footage to color-code our underwear drawer.”
“Even a closet can be organized,” he countered, stepping fully into my room now, scanning it with that critical eye that missed nothing.
Despite my annoyance, I couldn’t help but notice how his t-shirt stretched across his shoulders, how his jeans hugged his thighs in a way that was completely unfair to my concentration.
“Excuse me for not meeting the exacting standards of the Clean Freak Brigade,” I snapped, feeling my hackles rise. “Some of us have lives that don’t revolve around alphabetizing our spice racks.”
“I don’t alphabetize our spices,” he said, moving farther into my space, backing me up until my shoulders hit the wall. “I organize them by frequency of use. It’s more efficient.”
Of course he did. Because heaven forbid Colt Sinclair do anything the normal human way. And heaven forbid he respect the concept of personal space.
He was too close now, looming over me like some predatory skyscraper.
I pressed my back against the wall, trying to maintain at least the illusion of distance.
The problem with having a tiny room was that there was nowhere to retreat to—nowhere to hide from six foot two of irritated, muscular stepbrother whose scent—something woodsy and sharp—was making it surprisingly hard to focus.
“You know what else would be efficient?” I asked, tilting my chin up defiantly. “You getting out of my face and letting me go to dinner.”
Instead of backing off, he leaned in closer, one hand braced on the wall beside my head, effectively caging me in.
This close, I could see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes, the slight shadow of stubble along his jaw that he normally kept perfectly clean-shaven.
My traitorous heart picked up speed, responding to his proximity in a way my brain kept trying to deny.
“Your room reeks,” he said, his voice dropping to a near-growl, nostrils flaring slightly.
“Thanks for the stellar review. I’ll be sure to note it in my ‘Things I Don’t Care About’ journal,” I retorted, though my breath hitched traitorously when his free hand came up to brush a strand of hair from my face.
His fingertips grazed my temple, leaving a trail of heat that was nothing like Jaxson’s gentle warmth—this was sharper, more electric, like static jumping between us.
Something dark and almost hungry flashed in his eyes as he leaned even closer. “It’s not just the room,” he murmured, his face inches from mine now. “It’s you.”
Before I could process what that meant, he dipped his head slightly, inhaling deeply near my neck in a way that made every nerve ending tingle with awareness. What the actual hell? Was he… sniffing me?
“You smell like him,” he said, the words so quiet I almost thought I’d imagined them.
“Like who?” I managed, my voice embarrassingly breathless, caught between the urge to push him away and the strange, inexplicable desire to pull him closer.
His eyes met mine, something primal in their depths that made my stomach flip. “Like Jaxson.”
My heart skipped several beats before launching into double-time. How could he possibly know? Did I actually smell like Jaxson? Was that even a thing?
“I don’t—”
“Don’t lie to me,” he cut me off, his thumb brushing lightly along my jawline in a gesture that felt both possessive and strangely tender. “I can smell him on you. What happened last night?”
His touch sent electric currents racing across my skin—different from Jaxson’s honey-warm caresses, but not unpleasant. Just… different. Sharper. More intense. Like the difference between a gentle summer rain and a lightning storm. Both beautiful, both compelling, but in completely different ways.
“Nothing happened,” I insisted, mentally cursing the heat I could feel climbing my neck. “And even if something did, it’s none of your business.”
Something flickered across his features—not anger, but something more complex. Something that looked almost like longing. His hand slid from my jaw to the side of my neck, thumb resting against my pulse point. His smile widened as he felt it racing under his touch.
“Your body gives you away every time, Lan.”
The way he said my name—low and rough, like he was savoring the taste of it—sent an involuntary shiver down my spine that wasn’t entirely from fear or discomfort. This was something else, something I wasn’t ready to examine too closely.
“Get off me,” I said, but even to my own ears, the protest lacked conviction.
I pushed against his chest with both hands, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath my palms. It was like trying to move a mountain—he didn’t budge an inch, and worse, the contact sent another wave of that confusing electricity through me.
“Open a window sometimes,” he said, ignoring my half-hearted attempt to dislodge him. “Air this place out. It’s… distracting.”
“I do open them,” I snapped, trying to ignore how his thumb was now tracing small circles against my collarbone. “Daily. Maybe you should get your nose checked. Or better yet, keep it out of my business.”
His grip tightened slightly, not painful but definitely claiming. “Jaxson isn’t the only one who notices you,” he said, voice dropping to something just above a whisper. “He isn’t the only one who wants—”
“Lan?” Bree’s voice called from the hallway, cutting through the tension like a knife. “Are you coming? I’m starving, and if your brothers eat all the food, I’m holding you personally responsible!”
Colt stepped back immediately, the movement so smooth it was almost supernatural. One moment he was all up in my space, the next he was a respectable distance away, his expression perfectly composed as if nothing had happened.
But something had happened. Something that left me feeling off-balance and confused, my skin still tingling where he’d touched me, my mind racing with questions I wasn’t sure I wanted answers to.
“We’re coming,” he called back, his voice steady, none of that strange intensity from moments ago. Then, in a lower tone just for me, he murmured, “This isn’t over, Lan.”
It should have sounded like a threat. Instead, it felt almost like a promise—one that sent a shiver down my spine that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.
I ducked under his arm, escaping into the hallway where Bree waited, eyebrows raised in silent question. My heart was still racing, my thoughts a jumbled mess of confusion.
“Everything okay?” she asked, her gaze darting between me and Colt as he emerged from my room.
“Perfect,” I lied, hoping my face wasn’t as flushed as it felt. “Colt was just… being Colt.”
She didn’t look convinced but thankfully let it drop as we headed toward the dining room. I could feel Colt’s eyes on my back, that weight of his gaze like a physical touch—one that I couldn’t quite decide if I wanted to lean into or run from.
What the hell was that about? And what had he been about to say before Bree interrupted?
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Bree whispered as we approached the others.
“Later,” I promised, spotting Jaxson at the grill, looking unfairly attractive in an apron that read Kiss the Cook (a gift from Sofia last Christmas that had made me choke on my eggnog).
The moment our eyes met across the room, that strange warmth flared in my chest again, stronger than before.
Unlike the sharp electricity of Colt’s touch, this felt like coming home.
Yet somehow, the memory of Colt’s fingers against my skin lingered, a counterpoint that I couldn’t quite dismiss.
“When there are fewer people and more alcohol.”
“I’m holding you to that,” she warned but mercifully dropped the subject as we rejoined the party.
Behind us, Colt entered the room, and I felt his presence like a shadow at my back. When he passed by to grab a beer, he leaned close enough that only I could hear his parting shot.
“This isn’t over, little brother.”
I suppressed another shiver—one that felt strangely like anticipation—focusing instead on Jaxson’s warm smile as he waved us over to the food.
At least the porn magazines had been forgotten. Small victories, Lan. Small victories.