Rae's POV
The kitchen smelled like garlic and melted cheese, and I was perched on one of the high counter stools in nothing but Killian's black button-down and my little lace thong, legs swinging like a kid waiting for cookies.
My hair was still damp, falling in messy waves over my shoulders, and every time I moved the shirt slipped off one shoulder. I didn't bother fixing it.
Killian stood at the oven in gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt that clung to his back, forearms flexing as he pulled the lasagna tray out with zero effort.
The man looked like he belonged in a cooking magazine titled "How to Make Domestic Look Illegal."
He slid the bubbling dish onto the stove top, then moved to the blender. Strawberries, banana, mango, a splash of almond milk, a scoop of vanilla yogurt.
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