After Midnight by Sarah Grimm, Sarah Grimm

things she hadn’t thought about in years, wish for things she couldn’t have. Not with him.
    Not with any man.
    Isabeau sighed. She flicked off the water. Turning, she leaned back against the counter and studied her surroundings. Thanks to her restlessness, her apartment was spotless. Everywhere she looked surfaces gleamed and sparkled beneath the glow of recessed lighting. There was nothing left to dust or vacuum. Nothing left to keep her mind occupied, away from thoughts of the too-sexy singer.
    A knock sounded at the door. She frowned. Suddenly the music sounded louder, her body more sensitized. She knew before opening the door, the identity of her visitor. “Noah.”
    He stood with his shoulder against the doorjamb, legs crossed at the ankles, as he skimmed his gaze from her toes up her bare legs. His attention paused on her paint-splattered tank top and cut-off jean shorts before continuing to her eyes. “Hello.”
    She dragged in a breath as her nerves scrambled. Dark need stirred her blood. “Hi.”
    How could he look even sexier than the last time she’d seen him? It wasn’t possible. But he did. From the worn, comfortable jeans that hugged him in all the right places, to the green T-shirt that matched his eyes, the man looked sinfully good. She was still trying to absorb the effect he had on her nerves when he smiled. Damn him. His smile was wicked and cocksure.
    It took her breath away.
    “Should I have rung you first?”
    “What? No.” She stepped back and gestured with her hand. “Come on in.”
    He stepped inside, and she shut the door behind him. His gaze swept around the room before coming back to her. “Have you been painting?”
    Maybe she should have left the door open. Was it hot in here? “I painted the bathroom. How’d you know?”
    “I can smell it,” he replied. “Plus, you have a bit of red paint right…” He reached for her, the pad of his thumb brushing slowly across her collarbone. “Here.”
    Heat sizzled to life between them. Every cell in her body tingled. Her breath froze in her lungs. She felt herself leaning toward him. For her own peace of mind, she eased back.
    His hand dropped away. He frowned. “I didn’t get all of it.”
    She absently scrubbed at the spot. “It doesn’t matter. It’s latex paint, it will come off in the shower.”
    “Okay.” He rocked back on his heels and continued to watch her in a disconcerting way. She was unable to read his expression until the music on her stereo changed to the next CD. As the first few beats played, his smile returned. “Aren’t you a little too young to be a fan of Thin Lizzy?”
    “You can never be too young or too old for great music.”
    “How do you decide what is great and what isn’t?”
    “You expect me to say by the artist’s skill, don’t you? But that’s only part of it. Personally, I judge music by the way it makes me feel.”
    “And how does Thin Lizzy make you feel?” he asked, as he crossed the room to her fireplace and the racks of compact discs that littered the mantel top. The fact that he appeared totally comfortable in her home, while she was a mass of nerves, filled her with dismay.
    “Energized,” she replied. “Happy.”
    His fingers traced over the spine of each disc until he located and removed one. “What about this one? How does it make you feel?”
    She shifted her gaze, then wrinkled her nose. “You can have that one if you’d like. It gave me a headache.”
    Amusement slid into his eyes. “No, thanks. It had the same effect on me.”
    Her lips curved.
    “You have an extensive collection,” he commented, his attention back on the collection he spoke of.
    “It’s a passion,” she admitted, then crossed the room to stand next to him. “Some might call it a compulsion, but I love all kinds of music.”
    “Do you ever listen to your own music?”
    “No. Do you?”
    “Sometimes.” He faced her. In his hand, he held one of his own CDs. “I’m surprised you have this