His chest was bare. Not in a towel-around-the-waist, just-got-out-of-the-shower way either. He was just... standing there. Shirtless. Grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, the waistband of his boxers peeking out, and a torso that looked like it belonged on a magazine cover. Which was absolutely not something you'd ever pictured when you'd thought of Tristan Maven.

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. Your brain was static.

A woman's voice floated from somewhere deeper in the house, warm and light.

A petite woman with Tristan's eyes appeared behind him, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her smile was genuine, bright, zero sign of recognition.