4. Clover
It’s amazing how fast "short term" can turn into “feels like goddamn forever.”
One week. Just seven measly days. That’s all it’s been since Banks freaking Priestly and his perfect face and firefighter muscles invaded my existence, and already my beloved routine has been tossed into a dumpster and set on fire.
Exhibit A: It's 5:41 AM—an ungodly hour where only bakers and serial killers are awake–—and I'm standing frozen in my kitchen doorway, staring like a dumbass at a half-naked man making coffee in my kitchen when I should be blissfully unconscious.
"Morning, Freckles," Banks says without even turning around, like he’s got some creepy sixth sense that alerts him to my presence. His back is to me, all broad shoulders and sculpted muscle that tapers down to a narrow waist. I can’t see them right now, but there are abs. Abs. In real life. There’s even one of those V things that are pretty much crack to every woman with a pulse.
And my pulse this morning just so happens to be between my thighs.
Oh, and as if this man wasn’t hot enough, the early morning sunlight streaming through the window catches on a scar that runs along his left shoulder blade. The imperfection of it breaking up the miles of inked skin and muscles just makes him better somehow.
My brain immediately starts firing off a million questions about that scar. Questions that will remain forever unanswered, thank you very much.
"Don't call me that," I mutter, the response mostly involuntary by now. I force my sleep-fogged eyes away from the mouthwatering expanse of tattooed skin and focus on the absolute betrayal happening on my countertop. "Is that… Are you reorganizing my spice rack right now?"
Ugh. I can already feel that familiar twitch starting up in my left eye. This is going to be a long three months.
He glances over his chiseled shoulder, his lips quirking up at one corner in that charming half-smile that he totally knows is hot. "The way you had it was a mess. This way, everything you need for, say, Mexican night is all together. Makes way more sense."
"You touched my spices?" My voice goes up about three octaves with each word. "That's a direct violation of rule number eight!"
"Don't touch Clover's organizational systems unless you want to die," he recites, turning to face me with two steaming mugs of coffee that look almost small in his large hands. Hands I have never once fantasized about having on my body. "But I kinda took that more as a suggestion than an actual hard-and-fast rule."
I narrow my eyes at him, trying very, very hard to maintain eye contact with his greenish brown eyes that are more brown than green this morning, and not let my gaze drift southward to his chest. Or his abs. Or that damn V line that points directly to the promised land in his low-slung sweatpants. Or, you know, the very obvious outline of what's residing in those sweatpants. "I don't seem to recall adding an asterisk to that rule that said 'unless Banks thinks he knows better'."
He holds out a mug and it’s my favorite one. It’s got a gold rim and sorry for what I said before I had my coffee written in big, bold letters. Is that supposed to be some commentary on my pre-caffeine crankiness? Asshole. "Peace offering?"
My traitorous hands reach for the mug before my brain can even register what's happening. Our fingers brush during the exchange, and this wave of tingles shoots straight up my arm.
Seriously? Tingles? I’ve been doing the Olympics of social distancing all week just to avoid this kind of accidental contact, but Banks seems determined to invade my personal space every chance he gets.
"Thanks," I manage, taking a big gulp of the coffee to hide the flush on my face and can only hope he doesn’t notice what my nipples are doing right now. I close my eyes and moan because this coffee is perfect—strong, with just the right amount of cream and a hint of cinnamon. Exactly how I like it. My eyes snap open and focus on Banks as he shifts behind the counter. "How the hell did you know how I take my coffee?"
He just shrugs, the movement causing his muscles to ripple under his skin. I could watch it all day. Just sit here sipping an endless supply of perfectly made coffee and enjoy the show. Wait, no. Bad, Clover. "I pay attention, Freckles."
Now what the hell does that mean? Something warm sparkles to life inside of me at his words. I immediately stomp on it. "Well, stop. And you better put every single spice back exactly where it was. Now."
"You'll thank me when you're trying to make some complicated curry next week and don't have to dig through a million bottles to find your garam masala."
"I hate Indian food."
He just grins, completely unrepentant, and takes a deliberate step closer, invading my already compromised personal space. "We'll see about that, Freckles. You’ve never tasted mine."
Was that flirty? It’s not just me, right? It totally was.
I take another sip of my delicious coffee, trying to ignore the way my body is reacting to his mere presence. We’re not even going to talk about what he just said. "Don't you own a shirt? Maybe I should add another rule to the list."
His grin widens, and his eyes do this slow, entirely too hot sweep down my body, lingering for a beat or two on my sleep shorts and tank top. I cross my arms to try to hide my nipples. "Nah, you won’t do that. Know how I know?”
I shake my head.
“Your nipples are practically waving hello."
"They are so not—" Okay, they definitely are. Crap. I really hoped he wouldn’t notice. I clamp my mouth shut, my cheeks burning. He's absolutely right, but I'd rather swallow a bottle of hot sauce than admit it. “It’s cold in here,” I snap.
His grin just turns even cockier while I glower at him. Is it possible to glower up at someone taller than you? I’m giving it my best shot. “Sure it is.”
"Shut up. Go cover up… all of that." I gesture vaguely at his torso, which is basically a walking, talking anatomy lesson in muscle with ink drawing little maps to all the best parts.
"All of what?" He takes another step closer, crowding me against the counter like he’s been doing all damn week. When we pass each other in the hallway. Reaching right past me for the remote so his arm brushes mine. Leaning over me to grab a glass from the highest cabinet when there were perfectly good glasses drying on the counter.
"You're not cute, Priestly."
"And yet you can't stop staring."
"I have to go shower." I sidestep him, clutching my coffee mug like it’ll protect me from doing something incredibly stupid. Like reaching out and touching him.
Or jumping his bones. Bone. Whatever.
He smirks. “Because it’s so cold in here?”
"Stop looking at my nipples, you perv!"
He completely ignores me. "I fixed your leaky faucet in the bathroom, by the way," he calls after me as I try to make my escape. "The washer was shot. And your showerhead was practically fossilized with mineral buildup. I soaked it in vinegar overnight, so you should actually have decent water pressure now."
I freeze mid-escape, turning slowly to face him. "You… fixed my shower?"
"Yep." He takes a casual sip of his coffee, like he didn’t just blow my mind. No one’s ever done something like this for me before. Not even my damn landlord and it’s his job. "I noticed it was dripping, and the pressure sucked."
"I've been trying to get my cheap-ass landlord to fix that damn drip for months."
He just shrugs again, completely unfazed by what he’s done. "It was a quick fix."
"Oh." I'm suddenly at a loss for words, which is a rare and unsettling occurrence. I'm not entirely sure what to do with this information or the weird, unfamiliar feeling that's starting to bloom in my chest. Is this… gratitude? Confusion? Wait, is this… affection?
Ew, no. Gross.
Setting that aside, there’s also the disturbing realization that maybe having Banks around isn't going to be the complete and utter disaster I was anticipating. "Thanks," I manage, the word feeling a little awkward coming out of my mouth. "I guess."
"You're welcome, I guess," he mimics, that damn smirk back on his mouth again, but his eyes are… warm. And something about the way he's looking at me makes it a little hard to remember how to exhale.
I haul ass to the bathroom before I do something truly idiotic, like smile at him or, God forbid, start thinking of him differently. I can’t afford to do that, not when it took me years to get over my crush on him the first time. He is not allowed to worm his way back in like that by being nice to me. Nope. I just need a second to remind myself he’s the cocky a-hole firefighter who thinks my life choices are less than impressive.
The bathroom door clicks shut behind me with a satisfyingly solid sound, and I lean against it, letting out a slow, shaky breath.
See? I’m fine.
Any lukewarm feelings that might’ve been developing are already gone.
I set my coffee on the counter and reach to turn on the shower, completely unprepared when a strong, steady stream of water immediately bursts forth. Huh. He actually did fix it. Maybe this three months won't be a complete and utter nightmare after all. Maybe.
Steam starts to fill the bathroom as I strip off my shirt and sleep shorts. I step under the spray and let out the biggest sigh of relief as hot water pounds down on me with so much more pressure than I've experienced in months.
As if summoned to disturb my moment of zen, a loud knock shakes the thin door.
"What?" I yell over the sound of the glorious water.
"Sorry!" Banks's deep voice comes through the door. "I forgot my razor in there. Mind if I grab it real quick?"
All that tension in my body that had just melted away comes right back. Before I can even form a coherent "Hell no, you can wait until I'm done," the door cracks open a few inches.
"I'm not looking, I swear. Just reaching in for it."
"Banks, don't you dare—"
Too late. His arm snakes through the gap, groping blindly on the counter. I press myself back against the shower wall, even though the curtain is completely opaque. The fact that he's literally right on the other side of that flimsy piece of fabric, that if he wanted to, he could just yank it back and see me naked and wet and…
My brain throws a goddamn circuit breaker at the mental image. Heat that has absolutely nothing to do with the water temperature floods through me, making my cheeks flush all over again.
"Got it," he announces, his arm withdrawing as quickly as it appeared. "Thanks, Freckles. Enjoy your shower."
The door clicks shut again, and I exhale the longest breath of my entire life. Enjoy my shower? What the hell was that tone he just used? And why am I suddenly analyzing the exact inflection of those three words? This is not good. Not good at all.
"This is fine," I mutter, reaching for my body wash. "Everything is fine."
Except nothing feels fine. I've spent the last seven days in this constant state of high alert. Hyper-aware of exactly where Banks is at all times. Hyper-aware of how he smells—like fresh air and smoke and expensive cologne. Hyper-aware of the sheer amount of space he takes up just by existing. And most disturbingly, hyper-aware of how my body decides to betray me whenever he's even remotely close.
Because I am not attracted to Banks Priestly. I refuse. That would be peak levels of self-destructive and goes against every single meticulously planned step of my life, which does not, in any way, shape, or form, include falling for arrogant, know-it-all firefighters.
Nope. Not happening. Absolutely not.
By the time I finally finish my shower, throw on some clothes, and emerge from the bathroom, Banks has thankfully put on a shirt—a faded PFD one that stretches across his chest in a way that's almost worse than him being shirtless. It looks soft and I want to steal it as soon as he takes it off, but no.
No, Clover.
It looks like while I was having an existential crisis in the shower, he whipped up eggs and toast and is now sitting at my kitchen table, looking far too comfortable and at home in my space.
"I made breakfast," he states, like I'm blind and haven't noticed the perfectly cooked eggs and golden-brown toast sitting in front of me. And seriously, what the hell did he need to interrupt my shower for if he was just going to leave that sexy shadow of stubble on his jaw? I swear he did it to rattle me. Well, mission fucking accomplished, Banks. "You mentioned having an early class today."
I did mention that. Once. In passing. Like, three days ago. I hate that he remembers little details like that.
"Thanks," I say, sliding into the chair across from him. "But you really don't have to cook for me."
"I know I don't have to." He pushes the plate closer with a smirk on his face, almost like he knows he’s getting to me. "I want to. Consider it part of the rent."
"You're already paying actual rent." Like, real, honest-to-goodness money that he insisted on giving me, even though Kasen told him it wasn't necessary.
"Yeah, well." He shrugs, and the movement does these utterly unfair things to his shoulders under that shirt that, yep, I’m totally stealing later. "I eat a lot. Might as well cook for you, too, while I’m at it."
We fall into this almost… comfortable silence as we eat. It's unnerving how quickly we've fallen into these little routines. Him making coffee in the mornings after his early shifts. Me baking at night after my late ones. Him getting way too invested in the trashy reality shows I watch to de-stress. Me pretending not to notice when he leaves his books on firefighting history scattered on my coffee table, always bookmarked with random scraps of paper covered in his surprisingly neat handwriting. It’s all… weirdly domestic. And I don't like it one bit.
I don’t like how much I like it.
"I might be working late tonight," I say, breaking the silence between us that’s more comfortable than I thought it’d be. "It's inventory day at Ember."
He nods, reaching for his coffee mug. "I'll be at the station until six, then I'm meeting Kasen for a beer. I can swing by Ember after if you want to walk home."
"I don't need a chaperone, Banks."
"Did I say you did?" His eyes flick up to meet mine, and they're suddenly intense and impossible to decipher. "Maybe I just want to see if Navy's invented any new cocktails I should try."
I know he's lying. He’s a beer man like my brother and Navy’s drinks are usually over the top with dirty names like the squirter and rim job. He's worried about me walking home alone in the dark, the same way he's been "coincidentally" showing up right around closing time all week. But arguing with him is exhausting, and I'm already running late for my class.
Plus, I got about three hours of sleep so I don’t have it in me to fight.
"Whatever," I mutter, pushing back my chair and grabbing my bag. "Just don't flirt with Navy. She'll eat you alive, and I'll have to listen to her brag about it for weeks."
I'm going to pretend that's the only reason I don't want him flirting with Navy and it has absolutely nothing to do with the weird, uncomfortable little twist I feel in my gut at the thought of Banks and Navy… you know. Touching. Or kissing. Or fucking.
That little twist has now morphed into full-blown murder fantasies about both of them.
Something is seriously wrong with me.
His low chuckle follows me as I head for the door, almost like the arrogant jerk can read my mind. "Wouldn't dream of it, Freckles. See you later."