He’s just too much. Everything about him.

More than impossible to ignore; it’s overwhelming.

I try to focus on the white cabinets and butcherblock counters instead. On the streak of moonlight beaming in from the window above the farm sink and casting an ethereal glow over the hardwood floor.

But my eyes always end up back on him.

A crooked grin appears, creasing the corner of his cheek. Hinting at the dimple I know is hiding there. “Refs got wasted and took the night off. I don’t look that bad, do I?”

I swallow. “Worse.”

Holden chuckles, a low, raspy sound that twists and snarls my insides. He laughs like he knows it’s a lie. There’s a streak of dried blood on one cheek and his left cheekbone is marred by a reddish streak. But beneath the battering and bruising, he’s still ridiculously good looking. Perfect bone structure and messy brown hair.

I drink more water, just for something to do. Watching as he runs a dish cloth under the tap and rubs the wet cotton across his face. There’s no cut, so the blood wasn’t his, it seems.

I keep staring, long after I should look away. Track the dampened fabric as it trails lower, down the corded column of his neck and across the bunched muscles of his shoulder and farther south.

He’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of black mesh basketball shorts and a dirty pair of sneakers.

I swallow—twice. Try not to appreciate the view and fail at every attempt.

“Did you clean in here?” Holden asks, suddenly.

I down more water, trying to focus on the sensation of cold liquid sliding down my esophagus instead of how he’s moved closer in order to toss the towel into the laundry room tucked off one corner of the kitchen. “A little.”

A lot.

The Adamses’ house is usually messier than mine and I’m the oldest of six, so that’s saying something.

Holden pulls his phone out of his pocket and makes a face at the screen. Carelessly, he tosses the device on the counter and strolls toward the fridge, opening it and pulling a bottle of beer out.

I grip the glass that’s now empty, feeling the leftover condensation slip against my fingers. “You already smell like a brewery.”

He smirks. “Sober as a priest, flower.”

“Priests are twice as likely as the average person to develop an alcohol addiction,” I inform him.

Holden laughs before popping the top off and taking a long pull of beer. “Good thing I ruled out that career path, then.”

“I know. Celibacy isn’t your thing.”

Holden raises an eyebrow; the only indication my response startled him. Usually, these late-night encounters begin and end with basic pleasantries.