Which I will, because this moment feels comfortable. It feels normal.

I close my eyes as well and let out a deep sigh as I allow the raft to float us around the pool. The incoming clouds slowly block the sun from crisping up our skin, giving us the opportunity to just enjoy the warm heat.

I’m not sure how long we stay like this.

I can’t be sure how long we nap, but it isn’t until I’m being carried up the stairs of Huxley’s house that I realize I’m no longer on the raft.

In a haze, I open my eyes and blink a few times. “What’s happening?” I ask, confused.

“I didn’t want you to get burnt. The sun came out again,” he whispers softly.

Carrying me down the hallway that leads to our bedrooms, I half expect him to kick open the door to his bedroom, but he doesn’t. He opens my bedroom door and then softly places me on my bed, rolling down the blankets and then slipping them up over my naked body. When he straightens, he grips the back of his neck and asks, “Can I get you anything?”

Caught off guard from his one-eighty in attitude, I shake my head. “No, I’m . . . uh, I’m good.”

He nods and takes a step back. “Sorry about that back there.”

“Sorry about what?” I ask.

“Touching you. I shouldn’t have. I’m just having a hard time keeping this professional, especially when I walk in on you naked. You’re damn hard to resist, Lottie.”

I tilt my head, trying to understand him. “When has touching me ever stopped you before?”

“I’m trying to respect what we have, not fuck it up.”

“Do you know how you can fuck it up?” I ask.

“How?”

“By closing yourself off.”

He grips his neck even harder. “I’m trying, Lottie.”

“I’ve noticed,” I say. “And I appreciate you opening up and talking to me. Answering my questions. It means a lot to me. It makes this situation easier, and honestly, I like getting to know you, Huxley. You’re a . . . neat guy.”

His brow quirks up while a slight smile pulls at his lips. “Neat?”

I smirk. “Yup. Neat.”

“Pretty sure no one has ever called me a neat guy before.”

“Such a shame.” I remove the covers he placed over me and stand from my bed. As I walk toward my bathroom, I feel his eyes tracing my every move. I walk into the walk-in closet and grab a fresh pair of underwear—if that’s what you want to call them. The fabric barely covers my ass. I look for an oversized shirt but remember all of my clothes are in storage. Groaning, I walk back out. His eyes immediately rake over me, from head to toe. It’s a heated gaze, reminding me that he might not have done anything with me this morning, but there’s no doubt in my mind that he wants to. “Can I borrow a shirt?” I ask. “I really just want to wear something oversized and comfortable.”

“You want to borrow one of my shirts?” he asks.

“Yeah, do you mind?”

His eyes grow darker and he pauses before answering. What’s the big deal? It’s a shirt.

I’m about to tease him, when he says, “Sure.” He turns away from me and heads into his room. I follow behind him, not caring at all that I’m topless. What’s the point in covering up now?

He goes to his dresser drawers and pulls out a faded black T-shirt. “Don’t lose it. It’s one of my favorites,” he says before handing it to me.

I take the threadbare shirt from him and unfold it, revealing a picture of Creedence Clearwater Revival. I quickly look up at him. “CCR? You have a CCR shirt?”

He nods. “They were one of my dad’s favorite bands. I only have a few memories of my dad, because he divorced my mom when we were young, but the memories I do have of him always involved CCR playing in the background.”

I slip the shirt on, loving how it smells like him.

He takes a step forward and tugs on the sleeve. “You’re swimming in this.”

“The way I like it.”

He nods again. “Yeah, you look pretty damn good in it.”

I hug myself. “It’s really comfortable. I might steal it from you.”

That playful brow of his quirks up again. “You better not.”

Teasing him, I say, “You shouldn’t have offered up this shirt if you didn’t want me stealing it.” I move past him, only for him to grip my wrist and pull me against his chest.

He tilts up my chin and says, “Don’t make me peel that shirt off you right now.”

“Is that supposed to be a threat? Feels more like a reward to me.”

His lips thin as they press together. His eyes search mine, bouncing back and forth, and I wait for his next move. His comeback. But he doesn’t say anything. He just . . . shakes his head and then laces his fingers with mine to bring me back downstairs to the kitchen, where he spins me toward the counter and lifts me up onto the island. The cold surface makes me squeal for just a second until my skin becomes acclimated.

“What do you want for lunch?” he asks.

“I thought you can’t cook.”

“I can’t,” he says. “But a sandwich is in my wheelhouse.”

“Is it now?” I cross one leg over the other and lean my hands back on the counter. “What kind of sandwich? Grilled cheese? Or is that asking too much?”

He looks over his shoulder at me. “That’s asking too much.”

I snort and cover my nose at the same time. “You poor wealthy man. Can’t even make a grilled cheese. Let me show you how it’s done.”

I hop off the counter and go to the fridge to find the cheese. Butter is on the counter in a crock, and I turn to find Huxley handing me the bread.

I know the pots and pans are in the island cabinets so I open one of the doors and find exactly what I’m looking for.

When I turn toward the stove, I feel Huxley crowding me. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to break anything.”

“I’m not worried about you breaking anything,” he says. “I’m hoping you teach me.”

I pause. “You really don’t know how to make a grilled cheese?”

“Never made one before.”

“Oh God, why do I find that so endearing?” I ask.

His hand falls to my lower back as he moves to my other side. “Maybe because it’s a weakness of mine and you enjoy watching me struggle.”

I chuckle. “I do like seeing the almighty Huxley Cane having to come back down to earth.” I elbow him, showing him I’m teasing. And when he glances in my direction with a smile, I can feel all of my anxiety wash right out of me.

With one simple look.

That’s all it takes.

“So, how do we make these things?” He holds up two pieces of bread.

“You really are helpless.” I turn on the stovetop, warm up the pan, and then grab a plate and a knife, which I hand to him. “Do you know how to butter bread?”

He gives me a mocking look. “I’m not completely inept.”

“Just checking.” I smile widely. “Butter one side on each slice of bread.”

He lifts the top to the butter crock and swipes butter over the bread. He’s not smooth about it by any means. He’s actually quite clumsy, which I find adorable, and at one point, he pierces the knife through the bread, making it seem as though I’m sitting in the front row to an awful infomercial where they don’t know how to do simple things like cut a slice of cheese.

When he’s done with the butter, I hand him the cheese. “Put that on the sandwich and then, with the butter facing out, set the sandwich on the pan.”

“Easy enough,” he says, though he gets butter all over his fingers in his attempt to put the sandwich on the pan. I hand him a towel, which he uses to wipe his hands. “Now we wait?”

“Yes. I have the heat on medium and we’re going to cover the pan with this lid so the cheese melts, and then we’ll check on it in a minute or so.”

He stares at the pan and then runs his hand through his hair. “This seems far too easy. I’m looking like an asshat right now.”

I let out a loud laugh. “No, just . . . interesting, is all. If no one showed you, how would you know?”

“I could ask.”

“Which you did.” I pat his bare chest. “You asked me. Aren’t you lucky to have me as your teacher?”