bark of agreement was muffled, as if the dog sensed Sage sleeping and didn’t want to wake her. Even the damn dog loves her.
He might be fighting a lost cause.
His gut agreed. Which meant he needed a contingency plan.
He went to his room to change into running clothes. Again. He needed to think.
Chapter Eleven
Sage didn’t realize she was sneaking up the stairs until one of the old wooden boards creaked loudly. Her cringe told her all she needed to know about how tense she was. How hard she was trying not to alert Hank or Knight that she was coming into the apartment. Not that her living here for the past month had been a bad thing, but it had been…strained. The attraction she felt for Hank hadn’t eased at all, had actually increased until sometimes Sage felt like her skin might split with the need to have Hank touch her. Even long hours at the bakery, pushing herself until her legs balked at the climb upstairs in the evening, couldn’t keep thoughts of Hank away, especially when she slept. If she didn’t stop waking up hot and bothered and ready to scream—in frustration, not pleasure—she might jump her roommate and damn the consequences. She knew she shouldn’t, knew it was too soon and she was still too screwed up and sleeping with the man who was essentially her business partner could be the dumbest move she’d ever made, but knowing all that didn’t change a single thing. She wanted Hank.
And to make it even worse, from the occasional heated glances Hank sent her way, she knew that the feeling, and the struggle, were mutual.
Squaring her shoulders, she pushed herself to walk normally up the stairs, creaks notwithstanding. Only when she got to the back deck did she hear the guitar. The strains of a melody floated on the breeze from somewhere inside. Hank’s music, not a recording. She could tell the difference. The stark nakedness of the sound, just the instrument and the fingers plucking at it and the occasional knock of what sounded like Hank’s knuckles against the guitar to keep rhythm, tugged her closer to the door.
Closer to her own destruction, maybe. If anything could make the hunk she lived with even sexier, it was watching him play. It hit her like an aphrodisiac every time. And she’d seen it often enough that she had no problem imagining those fingers plucking her strings, God help her.
She crossed the deck anyway.
The back door was open to the fresh air as it so often was when she came home, only the screen door blocking out the occasional insects in the air. Sage moved to one side, peering through the mesh. Hank was sitting in the open window at the opposite end of the kitchen, his usual spot, guitar cradled in his arms like a baby. One muscular leg was propped on the sill, the other braced on the floor, their long lengths naked from the thighs down and dusted with a healthy bit of dark hair. He wore familiar black athletic shorts and a white tank that stretched across his pecs in a way that should definitely be illegal. But it was his face that really struck her—his head was thrown back to the sun as if in worship, his eyes closed, every bit of focus on the music flowing from his hands.
And then he started to sing, something she’d never heard before, and Sage thought she might melt into a puddle right there on the deck.
It wasn’t a smooth sound—Hank wasn’t a smooth talker. Easygoing, funny, teasing, yes, but his voice had a gravelly quality to it, almost as if he’d just awakened, twisted in rumpled sheets, still groggy, except it never went away. Probably that deep chest of his, resonating the sound of his voice around its confines before releasing it. His singing voice had the same rough sound, almost a growl. It shivered down her spine straight to her core, waking up things best left alone. Things that were already torturing her. Things that, with nothing more than the sound of him singing, surged to the forefront so hard all she could do was grip the door
He might be fighting a lost cause.
His gut agreed. Which meant he needed a contingency plan.
He went to his room to change into running clothes. Again. He needed to think.
Chapter Eleven
Sage didn’t realize she was sneaking up the stairs until one of the old wooden boards creaked loudly. Her cringe told her all she needed to know about how tense she was. How hard she was trying not to alert Hank or Knight that she was coming into the apartment. Not that her living here for the past month had been a bad thing, but it had been…strained. The attraction she felt for Hank hadn’t eased at all, had actually increased until sometimes Sage felt like her skin might split with the need to have Hank touch her. Even long hours at the bakery, pushing herself until her legs balked at the climb upstairs in the evening, couldn’t keep thoughts of Hank away, especially when she slept. If she didn’t stop waking up hot and bothered and ready to scream—in frustration, not pleasure—she might jump her roommate and damn the consequences. She knew she shouldn’t, knew it was too soon and she was still too screwed up and sleeping with the man who was essentially her business partner could be the dumbest move she’d ever made, but knowing all that didn’t change a single thing. She wanted Hank.
And to make it even worse, from the occasional heated glances Hank sent her way, she knew that the feeling, and the struggle, were mutual.
Squaring her shoulders, she pushed herself to walk normally up the stairs, creaks notwithstanding. Only when she got to the back deck did she hear the guitar. The strains of a melody floated on the breeze from somewhere inside. Hank’s music, not a recording. She could tell the difference. The stark nakedness of the sound, just the instrument and the fingers plucking at it and the occasional knock of what sounded like Hank’s knuckles against the guitar to keep rhythm, tugged her closer to the door.
Closer to her own destruction, maybe. If anything could make the hunk she lived with even sexier, it was watching him play. It hit her like an aphrodisiac every time. And she’d seen it often enough that she had no problem imagining those fingers plucking her strings, God help her.
She crossed the deck anyway.
The back door was open to the fresh air as it so often was when she came home, only the screen door blocking out the occasional insects in the air. Sage moved to one side, peering through the mesh. Hank was sitting in the open window at the opposite end of the kitchen, his usual spot, guitar cradled in his arms like a baby. One muscular leg was propped on the sill, the other braced on the floor, their long lengths naked from the thighs down and dusted with a healthy bit of dark hair. He wore familiar black athletic shorts and a white tank that stretched across his pecs in a way that should definitely be illegal. But it was his face that really struck her—his head was thrown back to the sun as if in worship, his eyes closed, every bit of focus on the music flowing from his hands.
And then he started to sing, something she’d never heard before, and Sage thought she might melt into a puddle right there on the deck.
It wasn’t a smooth sound—Hank wasn’t a smooth talker. Easygoing, funny, teasing, yes, but his voice had a gravelly quality to it, almost as if he’d just awakened, twisted in rumpled sheets, still groggy, except it never went away. Probably that deep chest of his, resonating the sound of his voice around its confines before releasing it. His singing voice had the same rough sound, almost a growl. It shivered down her spine straight to her core, waking up things best left alone. Things that were already torturing her. Things that, with nothing more than the sound of him singing, surged to the forefront so hard all she could do was grip the door
Similar Books
