I Dare You (The Hook Up #1)(31)

“Oh, that’s too bad. Come in.” I’m nervous, feeling him walking behind me as we enter the house and he checks out the place. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s all mine, built in the late eighties and only a block from campus.

Before I get to the kitchen, he grabs my hand, halting me. His expression is conflicted as he stares at me. “Hey, I’m sorry for being an ass lately, Delaney. I swear there’s no one else. I’m just—”

“It’s fine,” I say. “I get it. You’re busy.”

It seems like he wants to say more, but he lets my hand go, takes off his jacket, and tosses it across the back of the couch. I see his chest…his naked chest…and I swallow thickly.

Feeling breathless, I say, “Take a look in the fridge and decide what you’d like. I have a little bit of everything.”

“You did mention nachos once,” he says as he pulls out a pack of ground beef and holds it up.

I nod and he grins, making my face heat. “I did. Now move your ass so I can work my magic.”

“Can I watch?” he says softly, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans against my fridge, perfectly showcasing his biceps and the ropes of muscle in his forearms.

I take a deep breath. “Sure. Hand me my apron, will you?” I say, turning on the stovetop and putting the beef in a pan. I tilt my head at the hooks along the back wall, and he strides over to pick up the black apron. He shakes it out and brings it over to me, and I expect him to hand it over, but he doesn’t; instead, he slips the loop over my hair, his hands brushing lightly over my shoulders as he spins me around to tie the back. Blood pounds in my veins at the way he handles me, as if he’s perfectly attuned to every nuance of my skin.

He spins me back around. “May the Forks Be With You?” He shakes his head as he reads the white words printed on the apron.

I ease away from him to stir the beef.

“You’re such a nerd, Delaney.”

“And your point is?”

His eyes light up. “I like it. I like a girl with a brain.”

“Good. I like you too.” I say the words lightly.

He’s closer now, leaning against the fridge and watching me as I work. His scent hits me—male with a hint of sweat—and I’m having a hard time keeping my eyes off his chest.

Just keep him at a distance, I tell myself, but the truth is I’m weak and tired of fighting this feeling. Maverick freaking Monroe is in my kitchen, without a shirt on, watching me cook like he wants to eat me instead of the food I’m preparing.

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his hand drifting down my arm as he pulls away. “You’re quite possibly the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met,” he says softly as his thumb rubs at a spot on my shoulder, and I don’t stop him, don’t pull away. “You’re nervous,” he says, leaning in closer. “Are you trying not to sneeze?”

I clear my throat. “Actually, my sneezing seems to be better lately.” It’s true, and the more I’m around him, the sassier I’m becoming.

“Nice.”

I fiddle with the pan. “Uh, do you want to find us a movie while I cook?” I gesture to the big screen in the den, which is easily visible from the kitchen with the open floor plan of the house.

“Sure. How about The Princess Bride?”

I drop the spatula in the pan and turn to look at him. A small grin curls his mouth.

“Why would you say that?”

His eyes lower. “I saw the poster you have up in the den.”

Oh, right. I glance past him to the gift He-Man left for me at work. I already got it framed and up on the wall, and every time I look at it, I think about the mysterious man who gave it to me.

“It’s one of my favorites,” I say.

“Mine too.”

I suck in a breath, my heart flying. I want to ask if he’s He-Man…but I don’t. “Yeah, sure, The Princess Bride sounds great. It’s free on Netflix.”

I work in the kitchen and listen to him as he fiddles with the remote, searching for the iconic classic. As I drain the meat and set it to the side, I work precisely and methodically, trying to keep my brain from piecing together what I know is true.

It has to be him. Too much has been similar, and I feel close to both of them.

I’m dicing tomatoes at the counter when he strides back into the kitchen, his piercing gaze sweeping over me. “Mind if I take a shower before we eat?”

“In my shower?”

“No, your neighbor’s. Yes, yours.”

“And you’ll use my soap?” I picture him using my loofa too, rubbing it across that magnificent chest.

Another grin. “Is this a problem? Are you uptight about people using your stuff?”

“No.” How do I explain that the image of him in my house with water spraying down on him…I shake myself. “Yes, of course you can shower. I-I just…what will you put on?”

He rakes a hand through his blond hair and scratches his jaw, which I notice has acquired a bit of a shadow. I wonder how it would feel between my…

“I can wear a towel,” he says, a glint of glee in his eyes.

“No.”

“One of your shirts?” His eyes brush over my chest.

“Too small.”