bChapter /bb88/bb: /bbLa /bbPOV /b

    I don’t knock, even though I probably should. But the porch light is on, and I know the door will be open. It usually is, éspecially when Xavier is the only person home, as the other three have night sses on Tuesdays.

    As I step through the front door, the warmth andfort make me inhale a deep breath of contentment. The guys‘ shoes are standing in a neat row underneath the bench to my right, and each of their unique colognes tickles my nose.

    I close the front door behind me and take off my sneakers. They’re surprisingly tidy for a couple of guys, and I wouldn’t want to scuff their polished floors, even if I’m not staying long.

    I’m here to pick up the hoodie I left on Saturday night–or was it Sunday morning? I borrowed it from Tessa and need to return it to her. She hasn’t asked for it, but I won’t exploit her generosity by letting it lie around at other people’s houses.

    I had left it draped across the back of the couch just before we went upstairs that night, but the sofa is empty now, as the setting sun’s pinkish rays pour across it in soft golden streaks. The dark gray hoodie, with frayed sleeve cuffs, that still smells like cinnamon from Beantree, is now folded neatly on one of the couch cushions. Of course it is. Most likely by Hunter.

    Xavier doesn’t say anything as I step into the kitchen and see him standing at the stove with his sleeves pushed to his elbows, his feet bare, and highly focused on his task. There’s one pan on low heat on the back burner, and the scent of garlic and butter wafts through the air.

    “It smells like you’re trying to win someone over,” I say lightly as I lean against the doorway, surreptitiously checking him out from behind.

    “Just feeding myself after a hectic football practice earlier,” he says in a bored tone, still not turning

    around.

    “Impressive. Most people would’ve gone straight for the emergency chips stash, or a protein smoothie,” I say yfully.

    “I’m not most people,” he retorts, but still doesn’t turn around. I don’t mind, though, because the view of bhis /bmagnificent ass in those tight jeans is droolworthy right now.

    “You keep proving that,” I say quietly as I think back on how he’s recently started showing me a different side to himself that I would never have expected from him.

    He starts ting whatever he’s making–scrambled eggs and something green by the looks of it–and then finally turns around, his green eyes flicking towards the hoodie in my hand, before looking me in the eye.

    Chapter 88: La POV

    “You came all this way just for that?” he asks, tilting his head like a curious puppy.

    “I came for the hoodie because it’s Tessa’s and I want to return it to her,” I say, then add yfully, “What, you think I’d make up an excuse just to see you?”

    With a slight smirk, he says, “You don’t need an excuse to see me,” before returning his attention to the counter beside him to grab utensils from the top drawer.

    Hearing that makes something in my chest ease somewhat, so Iy the hoodie down on one of the barstools and pick at the broken eggshells he’d left near the sink.

    There’s no conversation between us for a few minutes, only the low simmer of whatever is cooking,

    and the steady hum of an acoustic song filtering through the Bluetooth speaker next to the microwave, as he fries what looks like bacon in the same pan he made the scrambled eggs–typical

    man.

    But it’s not ufortable, and I don’t feel I need to fill it with unnecessary banter like always.

    Then, without looking away from the frying pan, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out

    something small. Heys it on the kitchen ind between us and then slides it closer to where I

    stand. His movements are casual, but they belie the tension I can see he’s holding in his trap

    muscles.

    I look down at the shiny object staring at me from the marble surface, and realize ?it’s a brand new,

    silver key that doesn’t even have a keyring attached.

    tached.

    “What’s this?” I ask warily, needing to hear the words but afraid of what he might say.

    He shrugs, grabs his ss of water from beside the sink, and, as he brings it to his mouth, asks, “What do you think it is?”

    “Xavier…,” I start exasperatedly.

    “It’s not a big deal,” he cuts in and dares to roll his eyes at me as he continues, “So don’t make it

    one. It’s just a key, Princess.”

    “You’re giving me a key?” I ask incredulously.

    “In a way, yes,” he says as he locks eyes with me. They aren’t as guarded as usual. They’re quiet and serene as he adds, “The key’s just in case one of us needs help and you need to get inside the house for whatever reason.” Taking a breath, he continues nonchntly, “And it’s for when you get tired of knocking each time youe pver.”

    My chest tightens at his words.

    He takes a slow sip of his water, sets the ss down, and then turns back to the stove, as if the

    Chapter 88: La POV

    conversation is over.

    I don’t say anything because, honestly, I don’t know what to say, even if my life depended on it. My thoughts spiral like, water disappearing down the drain as I watch his back while he finishes preparing his dinner.

    I pick up the key slowly and carefully, as if touching it would ruin the moment. It is warm from being in his pocket, and it fits into the palm of my hand like it has found its ce.

    I know what he said about why he gave me the key, but I can’t help but think there is some deeper meaning behind it all that he’s not willing to share with me, or at least not yet.

    Is this some kind of way of asking me to move in with him? With them? Do the others even know about him giving me a key?

    But most importantly, am I ready to move in with them?

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