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And I behold the four new visitors to our home, waiting up on the landing of the main entrance foyer.

A group of hunks who all look like they should be in a designer spread for GQ. Or at the front line of a Wakanda battle scene. Or on the covers of four hot romance novels. I’d take any or all of the above.

As long as I was doing it on my own two feet.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit!” It gets a seething repetition as Reece crosses the living room without setting me down, though at last, my irritation pierces all the way into the stubborn ox. As the bastard finally sets me back on my feet, there’s the hint of a shit-eating smirk across his face—though I have no time to smack it away before he grabs my hand and pulls me up the slate stone stairs.

Once we’re at the top, Reece tightens his grip in proportion to the tension beneath his “charming” smile. At the same time, I’m glaringly aware of the same energy flowing off his steel-straight posture and stiff limbs, his protectiveness a tangible force as he offers his free hand to Atticus Scorpio.

“Reece Richards,” the man says, bowing low. “Your home is beautiful. Thank you for entrusting us with the knowledge of its location and the use of your command center.”

“You’re welcome,” Reece responds with the elegance of a king in his castle. My swoon-worthy comparison gets help from his sleeveless, royal-blue hoodie, skintight black running pants, and the Danners in which he does all his training. If Henry the Eighth were alive today, these would’ve been the sporty monarch’s togs of choice. On the flip side, it’s not hard to imagine my man astride a massive destrier with his helmet tucked under one arm and a lance beneath the other. “And I apologize that we’re not able to offer any guest rooms for your use, but we’re at a full house with all of Mr. Foley’s Special Ops friends choosing to stay over.”

Atticus nods, his smile matching Reece’s for regality—beneath a gaze that’s already calling bullshit on half of what was said. He knows it; we know it. One: Reece isn’t sorry about the bedding situation at all. Two: he used the formality as a chance to remind Atticus that should they try anything beyond working side-by-side with us, he’s got a contingent of trained warriors at his fingertips too.

“Oh, please,” Atticus protests in a mild growl. “Do not waste a single worry about us. Our mobile housing unit made it up the grade fine. We will not be troubling you for accommodations.”

“You’re no trouble at all, Atticus.”

But he’s already telling another half-truth—at least from where I’m standing. “No trouble” is a relative term when it comes to this whole arrangement, and no amount of Trixie’s carefree flirting or Lydia’s lighthearted ribbing is going to untangle the knot of apprehension refusing to leave my stomach. And my nerves. And damn near every instinct in my body. While I manage to mask it long enough to get through the introductions to Atticus’s guys—named Athos, Porthos, and Aramis; I am not kidding—the uneasiness stays with me. None of my usual “shake it off” fixes are working, either.

After some downtime with the kids, forty-five minutes on the treadmill, and even some alone time with my favorite instrumental music and the newest Sierra Cartwright book, I finally give up and take an early evening bath. I pull out all the stops on the extras, as well. I soak for an extra-long time in the vanilla-scented bubbles, surrounded by my favorite patchouli-scented candles. Ariana Grande’s on my phone, playing through the wireless speakers in the ceiling. Just for the moment, I tell myself to focus on the words she’s singing. To just keep breathing.

In…

Out…

In…

Out…

“Bubble for your thoughts?”

I smile but don’t open my eyes. His arrival was silent but not surprising. I began feeling his energy, powerful and potent, between each of my steady breaths. Again, not a surprising meeting—since the man is as natural, vital, and intimate to me as air. Perhaps, right now, even more than that. As he rests on the lip of the tub, I go ahead and acknowledge that truth. The simple certainty that this is what I’ve been after all afternoon. The strength of him on the air. The force of him in my world. The connection to him in my heart.

I take another moment to savor the physical pleasure of his proximity, as well. The blend of his masculine spice with the earthy sensuality of the patchouli. The slide of his muscled thigh along the edge of the tub. And now, the gorgeous contrast of his deep growl against the backdrop of Ariana’s soft soprano.

“Okay…two bubbles for your thoughts?”

I giggle softly while lifting my stare up his form—before silently claiming the Luckiest Woman Alive prize for the day. The sight is beyond better than I expected. He’s ditched the hoodie and switched out the running pants for a pair of swim trunks. Random droplets cling to the ends of his hair, and pure joy inundates his stare. I drink in his naked torso as if it’s the first time I’ve ever ogled him, since all of my body feels exactly the same way. I’m warm and alive, sensitive and stimulated, needing more but openly wondering if I’ve had too much already. But more what?

And am I really asking myself that stupid question?

It’s all right in front of me. He’s right in front of me. So stunning and carved. So etched and defined. So burnished and brawny.

Holy hell.

Why does the bath water feel hotter by the second? And why does every little ripple or wave feel like a deliberate taunt across my sensitized nipples, my tingling thighs…and my quivering, impatient clit?

Why does the man pick now to start watching the bubbles as if he can see through them…and knows all that?

Why has it never felt more utterly awesome to have him reading my mind?

Awesome.

And awkward.

And absolutely craptastic on timing.