He huffs out a quiet laugh.
The kitchen feels smaller with him in it.
Or maybe that’s just my imagination.
He rolls his sleeves up slightly—why is that so hot?—and steps closer to the sink.
“You need help?”
I blink.
“With what?”
He gestures vaguely at the dishwasher. “That.”
“Oh.” I shake my head quickly. “No, I’ve got it.”
Silence settles between us.
Not awkward.
Just charged.
I focus very intently on arranging forks like they personally offended me.
“You disappear fast,” he says after a moment.
I glance up. “Excuse me?”
“Earlier,” he clarifies. “Soon as the girls swarmed me.”
Heat floods my face.
“Oh. Well. That’s kind of your natural habitat, isn’t it?”
He studies me.
Not in a cocky way.
In a careful way.
“You think that’s where I belong? With a bunch of underage girls?”
The question catches me off guard.
“No, not like that,” I scoff. “I mean like, L.A. Clubs. Red carpets. Teenage girls screaming your name?” I shrug. “Seems like part of the whole world famous DJ thing.”
He leans back against the counter.
“Maybe. And you?”
“What about me?”
“Where do you belong, Sunshine?”
The nickname hits like a spark down my spine.
“Oh, I’m boring.”