Hans is stalking off to the right, toward the bedrooms, hopefully to get my book. But he didn’t ask me to follow, so I’ll just stand here and wait.
It’s a little dated. Not much in here but the usual furniture. Basically, a typical single dude setup.
Except above the couch, mounted to the wall, is a… sword.
Huh.
I glance around at the rest of the room.
A remote and a glass of water on the coffee table. A standing lamp next to the couch. A TV, bigger than mine, in the corner of the room, angled to the couch. Nothing expensive looking, but the pieces look sturdy and well kept.
I don’t require wealth from the hot man who kisses me like he wants to own me.
Hans reappears from the short hall, holding his wallet.
“What are you doing?”
Hans pulls a wad of cash out of the folded leather, and it looks like a bunch of hundreds. “How much?”
His voice snaps me out of my daze. It’s scratchy and quiet.
He sounds awful.
“Oh geez, are you sick?” I press my hands against my chest, suddenly feeling bad for bothering him.
Hans lifts his chin.
“Your throat?” I ask, assuming it hurts too much to talk. “Have you taken anything?”
His brows furrow.
“That’s a no.” I roll my eyes. “Have you had dinner?”
Expression not changing, Hans slowly moves his head from side to side.
“Okay, um, I’ll be back in five. Maybe ten. Just”—I wave my hand toward his couch—“leave the door unlocked.”
Before he can refuse me, I hurry away.
I’m not worried about Hans getting me sick. I mean, he had his tongue in my mouth yesterday. So if I’m going to catch it, I’m going to catch it.
But feeding people is my love language.
And thief or not, Hans looks like he could use some love.
CHAPTER 18
Hans
I stare at the ceiling for a solid minute before I move back to the couch.
Cassandra, my obsession, the worst baker I’ve ever met, is going to come back with who knows what to make me feel better because she thinks I’m sick.
I’m not sick. I’m just struggling to speak because I got popped in the larynx last night by a man I was in the process of killing.
I never should have opened her mail.
Settled back into my usual spot on the end of the couch, I watch through the living room window as Cassandra exits her house, makes it a few steps outside, turns around, goes back inside, comes back out, this time pausing to lock her door with her bundle of keys, then hurries back toward my house.
She’s dressed casually. But if she thinks skin-fucking-tight leggings are less provocative than shorts, she’s as wrong as she is tempting.
I grit my teeth, silently telling my dick to chill out.
I can’t sit here tenting my pants.
I shouldn’t even let her back into my house.
There are so many reasons why getting close to her is wrong.
So many reasons for me to jump up and lock my door. Tell her to stay away from me. Tell her to sell her house and move across the country.
But I can’t turn her away.
Because I don’t want to hurt her feelings.
And I don’t actually want her to go.
I want her to stay.
Cassandra hops up my steps and knocks once on the door before turning the handle.
Like she requested, I left it unlocked.
The door cracks open an inch, then swings in, allowing her entry.
“Hey,” Cassandra greets me shyly. Which is almost laughable since she was just here, and she’s back because she boldly inserted herself into my night.
She shuts the door and pauses her hand next to the lock.
It was satisfying watching her go back into her house for her keys to lock her door. Because her safety is paramount. But watching her decide if she should lock herself into my house is amusing.
With a small shake of her head, she decides and leaves the door unlocked, then toes off her sandals next to the door.
“Okay.” She crosses the living room toward me, stopping on the other side of the plain coffee table I currently have my feet on. “I brought a few things.”
Cassandra sets an honest-to-god picnic basket on the coffee table. It’s wicker, with two arched handles, a lid, and a red and white checkered lining that folds over the top edge of the basket.
I lift a brow.
Her cheeks turn a soft shade of pink. “It was my grandma’s.”
Cassandra folds the handles down and pulls the lid open.
“I don’t know that she got it from anywhere special, but she kept my grandpa’s ashes in it for the longest time.” I lift the second brow just as she darts a glance up at me. “Not like in the basket. He was in an urn. His ashes…” Her hands go up in a stop gesture, and she takes a breath. “Pretend I didn’t tell you that.”