The argument had started over something ridiculous—maybe it was about who forgot to buy milk or why he always left his shoes in the middle of the hallway. Voices were raised, eyebrows furrowed, and Rafe had that usual smug smirk, knowing exactly how to push your buttons.

“You always do this,” you huffed, crossing your arms. “You act like you don’t care about anything I say.”

Rafe rolled his eyes, exhaling sharply as he dropped down onto the couch with a lazy thud. And then it happened—his legs sprawled out, that signature manspread, as he leaned back, running a hand through his messy blond hair. His gaze flickered up to you, completely unaware—or maybe totally aware—of the way your words suddenly caught in your throat.

“You were saying?” he drawled, tilting his head slightly.

You blinked. Once. Twice.

Damn it.

You were mad. You were definitely still mad. But your brain had suddenly stopped cooperating.

Rafe smirked now, catching the way your expression faltered. His confidence skyrocketed as he patted his thigh. “C’mon, princess. You were so fired up a second ago.”

You hated him.

And you hated how easily he could make you forget what you were even mad about.