I’m in the kitchen, wearing a baby-blue lounge set—too-short shorts and a skimpy spaghetti-strap top—with the coffeepot in one hand and a mug in the other. Just as I’m mid-pour, a shirtless, chiseled Rhys appears in the doorway, prompting me to gawk and then spill piping hot coffee all over my hand. “Fuck, fuuuck,” I hiss, setting the coffee on the counter. I shake my hand out, sending a smattering of droplets over my clothes. “Shit, Tabby.” His voice is rough and heavy with sleep as he rushes forward and grabs my scalded red hand, turning it over gently for inspection like he’s a doctor and
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