The hair on the back of my neck raises. “You can’t just tell me what to do. I can’t stay here. I can’t pay you rent. And also, you are not the boss of me.”

I mean, I can still feel the heat of his hand where it touched the skin beneath my t-shirt. And I can still imagine him bending me over the counter. But he doesn’t get to tell me what to do.

“You could use someone to be the boss of you, but that’s not what I’m doing. I’m looking out for you.”

“No!” I don’t want to be a charity case.

“Yes!” he shouts back.

“Mom and Dad, please stop fighting.”

All my righteous anger dissipates when I follow the sound of the last comment to the doorway of the kitchen where Shane has his arms on either side of the door jamb above his head. Shane wearing low-slung sweats and nothing else.

Oh, my god. My brain is fried.

I knew he was good looking when I met him yesterday, but half-naked he is magnificent. He’s got the surfer look going for him—blond shaggy hair, lean physique, and eyes so blue I expect to see clouds drift by across his irises. But good looking has nothing on fresh-out-of-bed good looking, and I know what I’ll be thinking of next time I do my “research”.

He does two quick pull-ups in the door then glides into the room. “Seriously, you two fight like my folks. Is that coffee?”

“Well, it’s similar to coffee,” I say. Amazed I can say any damned thing at all because the way his shoulder blades move when he’s reaching for a mug makes me think about the way they’d move when he’s naked on top of me.

I am demented, and this is wrong. There is no way I can stay in this house. Torture by testosterone. I’ll die of longing.

“Why you blushing, little bit?” Shane asks. He’s eying me with a knowing smirk.

He can’t know, can he? God...what if he’s a mind reader?

I clear my throat. “I’m not blushing. It’s an anger flush, not a blush.”

One side of Shane’s mouth lifts, bringing out a dimple. A dimple! How the hell is that even fair to a girl? “An anger flush, eh?” he repeats.

“I’m...upset with Fletch acting like he has the right to tell me what to do. And...and...for you calling me little bit.”

“She’s cute. Let’s keep her,” Shane says over my head to Fletch.

Fletch lets out a masculine huff. It’s probably a laugh. But it’s low and growly and activates some serious aching between my legs. “We still going running?”