Chapter Fifteen
Molly
I wake to sound, not to sensation. Not the dreamy, soft kind of sound that means the world is safe and small, but a metallic, percussive clinking that’s wrong for the hour. It slices through the thick velvet of my sleep with surgical precision.
My eyes snap open.
My body, slow on the uptake, is still in the soft afterglow of last night, skin tingling, pulse low and lazy and satisfied.
For a stupid, traitorous second I let myself savor it — the sweet ache between my thighs, soft bruises on my ass.
I’m naked and tangled in my sheets, and for a single, suspended moment my only thought is goddamn.
Then the metallic echo comes again, louder now, and the rest of me catches up.
Adrenaline surges. I pull the sheet tight to my chest and listen, every cell straining. There’s a faint scrape; a grunt; the clinging thud of metal on metal. It’s coming from my kitchen.
“What the hell?”
I swing my legs off the bed and pad down the hall, bare feet silent on the cheap carpet. My apartment is sunlit and bright, as if nothing bad could happen in a place this ordinary.
And then I see him.
Evan Wilder is on his knees in front of the water heater panel, toolbox open beside him, sleeves shoved up, forearms flexed as he twists something with a wrench like he owns the damn building.
Like he owns me.
My hands tighten on the edge of the sheet until my knuckles go numb. I want to scream. I want to throw something. Instead, I take a slow, measured breath and let the rage melt into something icy and controlled.
“What the hell are you doing?” My voice is low, but it carries.
He doesn’t even jump.
He pauses — slow — then turns his head over his shoulder with the lazy confidence of a man who expects the world to make room for him.
His gaze drops.
Not to my face. To what’s barely concealed beneath the thread-thin bedsheet I’m clutching to my chest.
His mouth turns up on one side. “Morning.”
I take two steps forward, fury pushing me. “What the hell are you doing?”
He lifts the wrench, and the metal catches the sun. “Fixing your hot water.”
“I didn’t ask you to fix my hot water.”
“I know,” he says, and there’s something in his tone that makes my chest hitch — like he heard the need under my anger and decided he didn’t care what I wanted.
I hate that it affects me; I hate that my throat tightens when he looks at me with that smirk.
He glances at me again, eyes lingering on my bare shoulder where the sheet slips, then returns to the water heater with a quiet little hum. “You’ve been showering in ice water.”
“I’m fine.”
He snorts. “Sure.”
“I don’t need you fixing my life,” I say.
“Good. Because that’s a little bit beyond me. All I’m doing is fixing your water heater.”
He says it as if it’s not the most invasive thing he could possibly be doing. I glare at him, but he just goes back to his task, sleeves slipping higher as he works. His forearms are roped with muscle and, fuck me for noticing, but I do.
“Same thing.”
“No,” he says, voice rougher now. “It’s not. It’s not even code for fixing your life. All it is code for is ‘I want a hot shower, and I bet you do, too.’”
I clench my fists, like the act of digging my nails into my palms will keep me from clawing his eyes out. He turns back and goes to work, deliberate, unbothered.
He pulls a part free, examines it, and then tosses it into the toolbox with a clatter.
“If you’re going to watch me work, at least hand me that flathead,” he says.
I freeze for half a second. It’s not a request, it’s a command.
My first instinct is to ignore it, but my body betrays me.
I reach for the screwdriver and crouch down, knees pressed together so the sheet won’t slip.
I pass him the tool, but our hands touch, just barely — enough to register heat and friction and the memory of last night.
He doesn’t let go right away. He holds it, holds me, just long enough that I have to look at him. His eyes are dark and steady and very, very close. My heart jumps, but my face doesn’t move.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, and my voice turns traitor on the last syllable, going soft. “I can take care of myself.”
He lets the words settle. Then he lets go and turns back to the heater, all business again.
“I know you can,” he says, too quietly.
The silence stretches. I watch him work, this man who could break me or save me, who does both without ever blinking. I try to think of something to say that isn’t a confession or a curse.
He breaks first. “You ever wonder why you get so mad when someone helps you?” he asks, not looking back.
My breath catches. The question lands somewhere I don’t let people look. I don’t answer.
He twists the screwdriver, then pauses. “Most people like it.”
“I’m not most people,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says, and this time his smile is real, not a weapon. “I figured that out.”
I want to leave, to hide in my room, but I stay. I can’t stop watching him.
He pulls the panel back into place and stands, taller than I remember, close enough to crowd the air between us. He wipes his hands on his jeans and gives me an appraising look.
“You want to test it out?” he asks. “Make sure I didn’t fuck it up worse?”
He means the shower. He means my body, my privacy, my control. My mouth goes dry.
I shake my head. “I’ll handle it.” Then, after an anxious swallow, I add, “Why are you doing this?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He works for a beat, jaw set, and then says, “Because you’re stubborn.”
“Wow. Thank you.”
“And because I want a hot shower too,” he adds, dry.
“Liar.”
He glances back at me, smirk returning. “You always this mouthy?”
I narrow my eyes. “You always this annoying?”
“Only when I’m right.”
“God,” I mutter, standing. “You’re a stubborn, stupid, kind asshole.”
That gets his full attention. He looms over me, eyes lit with something I’ve never seen before, and his voice drops. “Kind, huh?”
I lift my chin and flash my eyes at him. “Don’t get proud.”
He steps closer, close enough that I can smell him — steel and grease and something warm underneath. “Too late.”
My heart kicks the inside of my ribs and my skin goes hot under the sheet. I hate that he’s here in my space like he belongs. I hate that a part of me wants him to. And the rest of me? The rest of me wants to drop the sheet and reenact last night.
“Evan,” I warn.
“Molly.”
Hearing my name in his mouth does something dangerous to me; I should back up; I should back up and put on clothes and kick him out of my space.
Instead, I stand my ground.
His gaze drops to my lips. “You’re mad.”
“Obviously.”
He leans in just slightly, his voice drops to a challenge. “Then tell me to leave.”
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out, and his eyes flare, like he feels the surrender I won’t admit to.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s what I thought.”
I shove a hand into his chest — not hard, not enough to move him, just enough to prove I’m still in control — but he catches my wrist in a grip that’s not forceful, but certain.
The heat of his palm wraps around me, and my breath catches.
“Don’t you dare,” I whisper, but my body doesn’t mean it.
“You started this in high school.”
“Shut up,” I hiss, but it’s weak.
He takes the sheet edge between his fingers, tugs it down just enough to make my pulse explode, then releases it like he’s teasing a fuse.
Then he kisses me.
Not tentative.
Not unsure.
Like he already decided he’s taking what he wants.
His kiss tastes like trouble and sunlight and the hunger I’ve been fighting since he moved in across the hall. I grab him by the shirt and kiss him back, furious and needy all at once. Two can play this game.
When we break apart, my chest heaves.
His forehead rests against mine.
“You’re going to break your own rules for me,” he murmurs.
“Don’t get cocky.”
He huffs a laugh. “Too late.”
I step back, forcing air into my lungs, forcing my brain to work. “If this becomes… a thing…”
His eyes sharpen. “A thing?”
“If this becomes a thing, then it happens on my terms,” I say. “No clubhouse gossip. No one at The Noble Fir knows. Not Rabid, not Claire, not Goldie, not Alessia. Nobody.”
He studies me for a beat, then nods. “Secret. Got it.”
The speed of his agreement makes my stomach tighten. Too easy. Too smooth.
A cold thread slides under my ribs, my instincts whispering, why?
I ignore it because Evan’s gaze drops to my mouth again, and my body is a traitor.
“Fine,” I say, voice tight. “And you finish cleaning up the mess you made fixing my water heater, and then you get out.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He gives me a mock salute, and then grins. “You know what I’m going to do after that? Take a look at your truck.”
“You’re impossible. Clean your shit up and get out of my apartment.”
I turn on my heel and stalk back toward my bedroom, sheet clutched like armor, my cheeks burning. Behind me, I hear him drop back to his knees, tools clinking.
And I hate — hate — how the sound makes me feel safe.