And then the shame.
I wash my hands until the water runs cold. When I open the bathroom door, Cavall is sitting right there, head tilted, tail giving a tentative wag.
“Just a weird dream,” I whisper, scratching behind his ears. “Maybe a little privacy next time, dude.”
Deep breath. Downstairs. Coffee. Maybe if I only think in fragments, my mind won’t run away from me again. I almost believe it until I get to the kitchen. Lance is there. And Lance is shirtless.
His back is to me, broad and tattooed, every inch flexing as he reaches for something in the cabinet.
My thighs clench.
“Coffee’s on the counter,” he says without turning around.
I move toward the island, praying I look more composed than I feel. “Thanks.”
He turns, and his gaze drops down my body in one slowsweep before dragging back up. I’m suddenly very aware that I’m in a thin tank top and sleep shorts.
“You okay?” he asks. “You look tense.”
Oh my God.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Bad dreams?”
My face flames. “Something like that.”
His mouth twitches. “Anything you want to talk about?”
“Absolutely not.”
I have the horrible paranoid thought that he knows exactly what kind of dream I had. That he heard me through the walls. He pushes off the counter, reaching past me for the coffee pot, and his arm brushes mine. I step back so fast I bump into the island.
He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. Just pours his coffee and takes a long sip, watching me over the rim.
The silence stretches, thick with something neither of us is willing to name. Or maybe something I won’t name, and he has no idea exists.
Hopefully. God, kill me.
Then there’s the sound of a key in the lock and the front door opening.
Panic floods through me and Lance notices immediately.
“Lance! I know you’re here. Your truck’s in the driveway and you never go any—”
Juliette Calloway stops dead in the kitchen doorway. Her eyes land on me. Slide to Lance. Down to his shirtless torso and the fading bruise on his rib cage. Back to me, in my pajamas, holding a coffee mug with sleep-mussed hair.
Her mouth falls open.
“Oh my God.” She slaps a hand over her face, peeking through her fingers. “Lance, what the hell?”
He lifts his mug in a lazy salute. “Morning, Jules. Nice of you to knock.”
She storms forward with a rolled-up newspaper and starts smacking him on the arm.
He jolts back, coffee sloshing. “Jesus.”
“What. The. Hell. Is. Wrong. With. You?” Each word punctuated with another hit.