They’d yelled at each other like Brady had seen Dixon and his sister do countless times, but then something had changed. Sloane came back in with a look of such intense something that Brady and Callum’s conversation had died down in an instant. Whatever feeling was there, it reflected in the man until, finally, Brady couldn’t take it anymore.

For once, he’d disliked the silence.

Brady blamed that odd non-conversation on why he wasn’t bothered by Sloane’s nearly nonstop babbling while they painted at Roger’s house. And she’d talked. A lot. Not even him mentioning her jumping him for a kiss in the kitchen had deterred her. After she’d laughed and turned beet red, she had deep-dived into the story of the last time she’d painted a room.

That story had stretched the length of the car ride and then segued into another story about how she and her last boyfriend—some idiot named Mayce, of all things—had spent an entire night arguing over how to stain a dresser.

Sloane babbling about one thing or the other had become the soundtrack accompanying the first coat of paint on Roger’s nursery.

It…hadn’t been horrible.

Truth be told, he’d laughed more than a few times.

But with all that talking, the one thing they never talked about? The same thing that was making the boxers he was wearing now a bit tight.

Sloane. In the kitchen. With his candlestick.

Being attracted to someone? Not a bad thing. Being attracted to the only other person who knew that their fake relationship had an expiration date? Probably not a good thing.

Yet, there Brady was, pushing off sleep long enough to think about her.

She was cute, sexy, and funny, too.

She was awkward, constantly worried, and also someone who needed to be liked.

She’d also once called Marcus Robertson her soul mate, and, no matter what she claimed, that feeling? Well, he couldn’t imagine it just simply went away.

Brady sighed into the darkness. She must be something special, is all I’m saying. Brady couldn’t argue that.

Sloane sure was something, all right.

…

The morning wasn’t hot.

It was a downright bitch.

Sloane stepped out onto the front porch and felt like she’d just walked into a steam shower. The temperature was hanging around 97, but the heat index said it felt like 102. Sloane could say a few words about what it felt like, but she was trying to hold on to a vestige of the classy, southern-belle image that was expected of young, southern ladies.

Especially since she was staring at a particularly good-looking young, southern man.

But what she needed? What she wanted?

Well, that was to go back inside and push some ice cubes down her drawers.

Instead, her gut was going cold while her body was beading sweat, thanks to how Brady greeted her.