St. Clare releases a breathy laugh. “Your tongue is poking out.”

“Huh?”

“Do you always do that when you’re concentrating?”

His question throws me because I wasn’t even aware I was doing it this time, so how am I supposed to be aware of it any other time? “No clue.”

“It’s cute.”

There’re those squirmies in my gut again. I almost drop the wipe but catch myself just in time, refocusing on his ear and only his ear. Definitely not on him calling me cute.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

“For what?”

“If I … if I made you uncomfortable.”

Him apologizing to me is just about the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. He makes me the complete opposite of uncomfortable, but I can’t explain that to him when I’m so fucking confused by it myself. “Why would you make me uncomfortable?”

“Most straight guys don’t appreciate being called cute.”

“But I am cute.”

He watches me from the corner of his eyes. “You are.”

“I am.”

“So we agree?”

“Guess so.”

He goes on watching.

I finish cleaning and move on to the bandage. This time, I notice when my tongue slips out, and I quickly tuck it back in again.

His amusement lights up his face, and when he speaks next, his voice has taken on a slight rasp. “And I’m cute too, right?”

The words slide through me like warm coffee on a cold morning. “Cute” isn’t the word I would have used. St. Clare is … intimidating. Interesting. Striking.

I’ve let go of his ear, and he turns his head slightly so that his eyes can snag mine. “Perry?”

“Yeah,” comes out before I can stop it. “Yeah, you are.”

“Am what?” He’s studying my face, the familiar taunting expression filling his. “Say it.”

My throat is hard to get words past. “You’re very cute.”

St. Clare tilts his head in interest. “I didn’t say very.”

“No.” Ignoring my nerves, I direct his head back around so I can keep working. “But I did.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

ST. CLARE

So he’s straight.

But he thinks I’m very cute.

And I thought this week couldn’t get any more confusing.

Perry finishes bandaging my ear, and I’m a good patient, sitting there without teasing him again.

It’s hard though. His big hands are so gentle. His tongue is poking out again, and the concentration lines on his forehead, mixed with his scent—lightly sweaty from our run, slightly caffeine-y from work—is making it really fucking hard to keep my mouth closed.

He agreed easily to being called cute, but I don’t think he realizes he’s sex on legs.

Really long fucking legs.

“Okay,” he says, standing and dumping the garbage into the trash. “Next stop, Margy’s place.”

“No.”

“But I have to.”

“No, you have to do exactly what you wanted me to do and stay hidden.”