How in the hell was she supposed to focus with Nash around all the time?

“You won’t even know I’m here,” he said.

The low timbre of his voice danced along her skin, teasing her senses and giving her all sorts of ideas that she had no business having about her temporary husband.

“I seriously doubt that,” she said as she headed back to her room, Groucho and Mary prancing along at her heels.

“Chelle,” he called out.

She stopped and turned. “Yes?”

“About that kiss.” He looked her in the eyes, holding her gaze and locking her in place. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“It was nothing.” She clenched her hands to keep from touching her lips again. “I’d already forgotten all about it.” How she didn’t just burst into you’re-a-big-liar flames on the spot she had no clue. She really was too old to be this turned on by a pity kiss. Fuck. Time to get back to familiar ground, and a normal living room. She took a deep breath, girded her loins, and let it rip. “Please put all of my furniture back.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He tipped his chin but didn’t bother to smother the teasing grin on his face. “One question. What about the coffee table? Another six inches that way and you won’t be in danger of hitting it.”

She blinked in confusion as her head spun at his personality transplant. “Are you…asking my permission?”

Why did she sound so confused about that? It was definitely stated as a question, but…no one ever really asked her anything. Even at the foundation she just took orders from the board and did her best to take their limited vision and help as many people as possible. No one asked what she thought or if she knew how they could do things better or her opinion or for her permission.

“I am.” Something intense flashed in his eyes as his gaze went from her mouth down to the deep V of her not-closed-all-the-way pajama top, and his dimples deepened as if he knew exactly what he was doing to her at that moment. “I should do that as part of the don’t-be-a-mansplaining-asshole lessons, right?”

Hot, slick desire rushed through her before she could even try to squash it. All she could do was remind herself that Nash Becket was not for her. He was cocky and full of himself and a know-it-all. He was the last man she could or should ever want.

Too bad, you do anyway.

Shut up, brain.

“Fine,” she said, starting for her door again before she combusted right in front of him. “Put the coffee table where you want.”