I braced myself for Easton’s anger or his disarming charm. I braced myself to maybe see him shirtless or in a business suit.

I did not brace myself for the bright-eyed twenty-something beauty who answers the door.

“Can I help you?” she asks. She’s in a T-shirt that’s cut off just above her navel and a pair of fitted shorts that cover less than the panties I’m currently wearing beneath my jeans. Her hair is in a high ponytail, her eyes are bright, and her smile is . . . perfect.

I am such an idiot.

I stumble back a step. “I think . . . Sorry, I . . . Wrong house.” I’m such a liar. This is definitely the right house. Not only did I confirm the address with Ellie before I came, but everyone in this town knows what house belongs to future NFL Hall of Famer Easton Connor.

I turn on my heel and rush down the steps, still carrying the goddamn tray of cookies. I’m enough of a mess that I might eat these things if I weren’t in some sort of chronic state of vague illness lately. This stress is gonna be the death of me if even cookies don’t sound good.

I run smack into a bare-chested Easton, and the cookies fly everywhere. Good thing I wasn’t counting on a binge. “Shit. Sorry. Fuck.” Busted.

“Shayleigh.” He says my name so softly. Not like a curse—which I’d deserve after the way I treated him the last time I saw him—but like a song.

I drop to my hands and knees, picking up the cookies to save myself from having to look him in the eye.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was just . . . I just . . .”

He sinks down with me. When I plop a pile of pieces onto the plate, he grabs my hand. “Were you bringing those to me?”

“Yeah.” I take a breath. “They were for you and Abi.”

He arches a brow, waiting, and I will myself to say the words. “I’m sorry I treated you like my own personal sex toy. I’m sorry I pretended there’s never been anything between us but sex. I’m sorry I freaked out when your wife showed up.”

They don’t come. Instead, my gaze is fixed on his bare chest and the sweat rolling between his pecs and over his washboard stomach. Professional sports do amazing things to a man’s body, and as I’m acquainted with every inch of this one, I can attest that the benefits go far beyond the aesthetic.

“Shay, my eyes are up here.” Scowling, I lift my gaze to meet his. He laughs. “Want to see the house?”

“Um, your . . . girlfriend is there.” I doubt she’s a girlfriend per se, but referring to her as his latest screw seems rude.

“My who now?”