It’s only a few minutes before I hear heavy footfall approaching and the overhead lights above the kitchen island flick on. The next moment, Colton Wilder wanders in, with messy hair and eyes still fogged by sleep. Only, he doesn’t have a shirt on, and all I see is a broad chest and his jeans with belt undone at the buckle. “Shit. Sorry.” He takes me in, looking a little stunned to see anyone standing in his kitchen, and ducks into the laundry area just off the hallway. As he re-emerges, he’s busy buttoning a flannel shirt, before rolling the cuffs to hit midway up his forearms. “I wasn’t
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