The scent hit her instantly—smoke. Not a trace, not a faint suggestion, but a bold, clinging bitterness soaked into his shirt collar. She froze. Her hand gripped the fabric tighter. There was no mistaking it. She walked into the kitchen, shirt in hand, eyes locked on him. “Are you smoking again?”
Connor looked startled, as if caught off guard by something he didn’t expect to be discovered. He blinked, then stammered, “It was just one. I had a rough day at work, that’s all. I’m sorry.” But the apology fell flat, hanging in the air like the smoke she’d just smelled.