Callum answered the door in those sinister gray joggers the next morning. Because, of course, the gods had decided that my self-control would not go unchallenged. Although rumpled, he looked good for someone with little sleep and a head injury. I couldn’t help but imagine him looking like that as he rolled over in bed beside me. “Mornin’. How are you feeling?” “I’ll survive,” he said. “Come upstairs. I’ll put the kettle on.” Bad idea. Deep groans and raspy stubble replayed in my memory, the protective curl of muscular arms holding me tight against his rigid length. I wanted him. Desperately.
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