Page 21 of The Clinch
Because Leo Carver is in the kitchen.
Barefoot. Sweatpants low on his hips.
Shirtless.
All muscles and bruises and morning light.
I shouldn’t stare.
I stare anyway.
He moves with a casual ease that makes every solid line of muscle impossible to ignore. A bruise spreads across his ribs, deep and purple. A mark shadows the angle of his jaw, a small cut on his brow. Those are the only imperfections on him, and somehow they make him worse. More dangerous. More real. Everything I ordered myself not to want.
Heat moves through me in one fast, humiliating sweep.
I grip the doorframe.
This is bad.
This is very bad.
He turns, sensing me, and the shift in his expression is immediate.
Awareness. Focus. A pull I feel in my core.
“Morning.” His voice is warm and even, sliding down my spine. No trace of the violence from last night. No hint of the chaos he walked through to get me out of that club.
“Morning.” I aim for composed, but my voice wobbles.
He lets his attention sweep over me before meeting my eyes again. He doesn’t let it linger, but I feel the pass of it all the same.
“How’d you sleep?”
“Well.” I pretend the normalcy of the question doesn’t unsettle me. “Which is inconvenient.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “I’m not apologizing for that.”
I look away before I give him anything else.
He pours coffee and slides the mug within reach, close enough for comfort, far enough to respect my space. A deliberate choice. Thoughtful in a way that’s almost worse than careless.
I take the mug. Warmth settles into my palms. I drink.
“Jamaican Blue Mountain?” I ask before I order myself to stop.
His head turns, interest sharpening. “Good palate.”
“It’s smooth.” I take another slow sip. “No bitterness. Hard to mistake for anything else.”
Leo hums, turning back to the stove. “You drink it?”
“It’s my mom’s favorite.” I leave it there.
He glances back at me but doesn’t push. And that makes everything worse.
Because while I’m trying very hard to act composed, my traitorous body is cataloging every detail—the breadth of his back, the pull of muscle under skin, the trail of sunlight across his shoulders.
God. He’s built to ruin good judgment.
