I'm in a foul mood when I wake up.
My phone buzzes incessantly with texts from my COO, my project managers, and my assistant. Everyone needs something, and despite my clear instructions that I’m not to be bothered unless the world is physically ending, they continue to hound me.
Don’t they care that this is my health and my life on the line?
Fuck!
I run an agitated hand through my hair. It seems like it doesn’t matter to them as the phone continues to buzz with the flood of incoming messages. I could have dropped dead during that meeting, and my death would have inconvenienced them in that they had to wait for my cooling body to be picked up. But business must go on.
And it can go on without me.
Defiantly, I turn off my phone and head into the bathroom to shower.
Hot water pounds against my shoulders, easing some of the tension that's lived there for months. Maybe years.
I step out, water dripping down my back, and grab a towel. Drying off quickly, I wrap it low around my hips, already thinking about-
No. Not work.
I switch my thoughts to something far more pleasant.
The morning walk. Jennifer will be here in twenty minutes, and we've been doing the lake trail every morning since the day she found my pill organizer. Doctor's orders: thirty minutes of movement daily.
Except it's stopped feeling like a chore. It's become the best part of my day. Hell, anytime she’s around has become the best part. For the past two nights I’ve been stalling and drawing out dinner conversation in a desperate bid to keep her here longer with me. When she leaves, all the life in me seems to depart with her right out the door.
Which isn’t fair. It’s too much to place on her, and she’s not responsible for my happiness. Even if she does greatly enhance it. I need to learn to live for myself. Having her there beside me is just a benefit of living.
Grinning, I walk out of the bedroom into the main living space, heading for the kitchen to start the coffee before she arrives.
“Oh, my!”
I freeze.
Jennifer stands in the middle of the living room, clutching a spray bottle and a cloth, her eyes wide as saucers. Her gaze drops, then snaps back up to my face, her cheeks flooding with color.
I glance at the clock on the wall. Seven forty-five.
“It's seven forty-five,” I say calmly, watching her reaction. “You're early.”
“I... yes. I'm sorry. I thought...” She waves a hand vaguely, not finishing the sentence. Her eyes keep trying not to look at my chest, my abs, or the green towel slung low on my hips. It's almost amusing how hard she's fighting it.
Almost.
Because the way she's looking at me, even as she tries not to, does something to me, not just my cock, which is slowly lifting the towel, but also my heart and my head. She's gorgeous when she's flustered, her short brown hair slightly mussed from the wind outside, those big brown eyes wide and overwhelmed. And her curves in those jeans and that simple purple t-shirt are impossible to ignore.
How many nights and mornings have I dreamed about peeling her clothes off and laying claim to the sweet body underneath?
Countless.
I take a step toward the kitchen, watching her track the movement. Her lips part slightly, and I wonder what she's thinking. If she's imagining what I look like under this towel. If she's feeling brave enough to come closer.
“I need coffee,” I say, my voice coming out rougher than I intend. “And my meds. Do you need this towel for the wash?”
Her mouth opens and closes. “I... what?”
“The towel.” I gesture to the one around my hips, watching her face flush even deeper. “Laundry. Do you need it now?”
“No! No, I can... later is fine. I'll just...” She spins around, presenting me with her back, her shoulders rigid. “Sorry. I'll come back.”
