I hadn’t been expecting to see Constantine in the kitchen. He had his back to me, and oh, what a back. Since he was shirtless, I was able to make out every hard line and ridge of his perfectly tanned, sinewy skin.

The espresso machine hummed softly, and his hands were planted on the counter in front of it, and his triceps were flexed tight in that position.

The farther I walked into the kitchen, the more I noticed his back had a few scars marking his flesh as well. You poor guy, what happened to you?

“You’re supposed to be in bed,” he murmured, detecting I was behind him.

“So are you.” I perched my hip against the counter and rested my hand on the grayish-looking marble. “Can’t sleep?”

“That a question for me or a statement from you?” He lifted his head and slowly faced me.

“Both?” I smiled at the fact I’d responded with yet another questioning tone, and my insides burst into an explosion of excitement the moment he returned my smile.

“No rest for the wicked.” He lifted his brows.

“Question or an answer?” I smirked.

“Both,” he tossed out, his smile meeting his eyes that time.

I couldn’t help but take a moment to appreciate the man before me. To soak in the sight of such a gorgeous creation by God. Six-pack of perfection, but not in an overdone way. Arms and shoulders that made me want to cry (in a good way).

I visually tracked one vein that ran down his right arm to his strong hand, now planted on the counter next to him the way I’d done. Those hands had once covered every inch of my body, and it was hard not to remember that. To remember everything about that night in Aruba.

I gave myself another moment to check out my son’s father, from the sexy V-lines visible above the waistband of his mesh-looking black workout shorts to his stellar calf muscles. You don’t skip leg day. Good for you.

“Juliette?”

“Mm?” My gaze took a slow and long journey back to his face, my body heating along the way.

His other hand was parked on his jawline. While studying me, he palmed the day-or-two-old scruff. “Would you like me to get a shirt? Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“No.” Not in a bad way, at least. “So, do you just not like shirts?”

“Not when I sleep or work out. I don’t like to be hot.”

“And what about when you make coffee?”

He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. “Is there another way to make coffee than this?” The tease in his words and tone was both unexpected and refreshing.

“I see I’ve been doing it wrong for years.”

He straightened his posture. “You just weren’t doing it with the right person.”