He stomped into his room’s private bathroom, stripped down, and turned the water on full blast. Then, for good measure, he turned the knob all the way to cold. If a little hypothermia didn’t make things better, then he wasn’t sure what would. Twenty shivery minutes later and he was in a T-shirt and board shorts, convinced he could spend a night alone with Everly and not have another parking-garage moment. Why? Because she’d been right, and sex would only complicate the truce they’d been able to make.
That certainty lasted right up until he walked into the kitchen to find her in a flowy white sundress that covered her completely down to the ankles except when she stepped in front of one of the large windows overlooking the pool and the sun outlined exactly what she was hiding underneath the miles of cotton. Yep. Mr. Semi was back. Needing very badly not to be looking at her right now, he hustled over to the fridge and opened it.
“I know it’s early, but I’m starving.” He spotted eggs, cheese, milk, and green onions. “How do you feel about omelets for dinner?”
“You’re not thinking of cooking.”
He stood up and looked at her over the fridge door. She was still in front of the window basking in the island sun, and he was still getting a very good look—unknown to her—at what he could never again touch. It wasn’t a gut punch, but his dick wasn’t too happy about it. “Why not?”
She crossed her arms and one eyebrow went up. “You do remember the pasta the other night?”
That had been a six on a ten-point scale of epic kitchen disasters, barely a blip, so it hadn’t fazed him. Now the time he’d forgotten the bacon in the oven until it had turned into charcoal briquettes? That had put him off bacon for a good month.
“This is eggs,” he said. “Totally different.”
“Oh yeah, I’m well aware of your”—she made air quotes—“talent with eggs.”
Okay, so he’d overcooked some scrambled eggs to the point that the smell had taken over the apartment and lingered for a week.
“So does that mean you’re cooking?”
She snorted and started toward him. “Not likely. How about sandwiches?”
He checked out the contents of the fridge. “You good with ham and cheese on rye?”
“Sounds perfect.”
He gathered up the ingredients and laid them out on the island, and from there they fell into sandwich assembly. She sliced the romaine while he assembled the sandwiches. It was mellow, relaxed even as they laughed about the walk to the house, and he didn’t set off a single fire alarm. Afterward, he gathered up the sandwich plates while she grabbed a couple of beers and they headed over to the sliding glass doors leading out to the pool and the fire pit.
Everly jerked to a stop in front of him. “Tyler, what in the hell is that?”
Since he’d been distracted by watching her ass as she moved, he had no idea what she was talking about. “What?”
“There, pacing in front of the sliding doors.”
It was a raccoon, but way smaller than the thirty-pound bruisers that roamed Central Square Park. Leaner and narrower than the raccoons he was used to, this guy couldn’t weigh more than an average house cat, and its fur was a light grayish-brown color. And he was standing on his back paws with his five-fingered paws pressed against the glass. He wasn’t looking at them, though; this guy’s eyes were trained on their sandwiches.
“My guess is Alfred.”
Her face lost some of its color. “So we eat inside?”
He walked toward the sliding door, and Alfred took a few steps back but stayed standing on his hind legs. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of something the size of a cat.”
“It could be rabid.” Everly took a few cautious steps toward the door, her attention glued to the hungry bandit on the other side.
He jiggled the door handle before sliding it open a few inches. The raccoon scurried back to the underbrush on the other side of the pool, disappearing from sight. Tyler stepped outside, the island’s Florida heat more caressing than beating this time. Everly didn’t follow, but she did poke her head out, looking each way as if a band of rabid zombie raccoons was just waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.
“Alberto promised he was harmless,” Tyler said with a laugh and sat down in one of the nearby patio chairs, setting the sandwich plates on the small table between it and another chair.
“Uh-huh.” She didn’t take a step forward. “I’m sure someone said that about every serial killer at some point before he started offing everyone.”
Was it wrong to be enjoying this new, unexpected side to Everly? Because he was. The woman had an amazing capacity to surprise him—something he was beginning to enjoy far more than a chess player like him should.
“Come on, I’ll protect you, Ms. 3B—and anyway, the sandwiches are out here, and if you don’t come out, you can’t eat.”
Her stomach let out an audible growl. Victory was his.
“You know there’s more food inside the house, Mr. 2B.”