I am not a creep.

Swear it on Johnny’s grave. (And he’s not even dead yet, but he will be if he finds out what’s running through my head right now.)

I’m just the absolute gowl who’s been in love with her since the day she stole my Curly Wurly in first year and told me to stop whining about it.

See, I’ve been good. Real good. Haven’t perved, haven’t ogled, haven’t made any inappropriate comments about her arse in those sinfully tight jeans she keeps wearing like she’s trying to test my willpower.

And yet.

Yet.

I’m minding my own business, being a very good, very respectable young man, standing in Johnny’s kitchen, watching her stretch up on her tiptoes to reach the top shelf, and—

Oh, Jesus.

She’s wearing a thong.

I know because when she stretches, the hem of her hoodie rides up just enough to reveal that sliver of red lace above the waistband of her jeans, and I—

I need to leave. Immediately. Right now.

But I don’t. Because I’m an eejit, as that burley Dub would say, Because I have the survival instincts of a lemming.

“Is that—” I start, voice coming out hoarse. I clear my throat. Try again. “Is that red?”

She pauses. Glances over her shoulder. Stares at me like she can hear my brain short-circuiting.

“Gerard,” she sighs.

“I’m just askin’,” I say, holding my hands up. “For scientific purposes.”

She turns back to the shelf. “It’s not red.”

Oh, thank Christ.

“It’s burgundy.”

I audibly groan. Drag a hand down my face. “You’re trying to kill me.”

She hums. “Wouldn’t take much.”

I gasp. Properly clutch-my-chest gasp.

“You wound me,” I say, all dramatic. “I am a good and respectable man.”

She snorts. Actually snorts. Like she doesn’t believe me.

Unbelievable.

I step closer. Lean against the counter, watching her struggle with the shelf.

“I’ll get it for ya,” I offer, because I am, in fact, a gentleman.

She pauses. Tilts her head. Smirks.

“What’s in it for you?”

I swear on my future gravestone—

I do not even hesitate.

“One peek.”

She throws a dishtowel at my head.