He calls it, “On your mark, get set…” he scoops me up and jumps.
I make one loud shout of protest before we hit the water, and the force drags me far under. Scrambling to beat him, I kick and power up to find his head bobbing above the surface with a triumphant grin.
“You jerk,” I sputter and shove a big splash of water in his face before swimming away.
He catches my ankles and pulls me back and into his arms. “Did I ever tell you how gorgeous you look when you’re mad?”
“Shut up,” I laugh. “You don’t play fair.”
“With you, I need every advantage.”
* * *
I’m not sure how I feel about seeing Stiles in his workshop surrounded by cuts of wood and the sculptures he’s made. Detailed and intricate, it’s another piece of him I hadn’t counted on.
I study and touch the array of his work when I notice him moving something behind a cloth. “What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
I try to get around him to look, but he holds me back. When that fails, I use my feminine wiles, kissing and touching him.
“Now, who’s not playing fair?”
“Come on, Jasper, show me what you’re hiding.”
“Fine,” he relents, seeming a little embarrassed. “Here.”
“Is that me?” I recignize the shape of my face, my nose, my mouth.
“I made it without realizing what I was doing. Sometimes my hands have a mind of their own.”
Hearing he’d been driven by something deeper, innate, and without thought means more to me than if it had been intended. “Do I get to keep it?”
“Sure, I already have your face tattooed up here.” He points to his head.
I wonder if it extends to his heart.
Stiles grills steaks and asparagus for dinner, and I make smashed potatoes, with my mom coaching me through it on the phone. They don’t turn out as crispy as hers, but the men finish every last one.
After the meal, we watch a movie with Eddie Murphy that’s laugh-out-loud funny and play dominoes, where the colonel beats us handily. When we call it a night, I realize as I give them each a hug how difficult it’s going to be to leave in the morning. I take that thought with me as we separate to our respective rooms.
I wash my face and get ready for bed. I didn’t think the bet really counted. That doesn’t stop the wanting, though. Or the way my feelings are growing…in exponential leaps.
Regardless of the rules, the notion of me falling hard for Stiles is no longer awhat-if. It’s adone deal. I knew Stiles, with all his dark and broody mystique, would be complex. But I hadn’t been prepared for how nuanced and interesting those complexities would be. I hadn’t counted on his sense of humor or ability to have fun. I hadn’t counted on Stiles having a sweet or gentle side. He’d changed his life and quit the army—a career he seemed to love—to take care of his grandfather. How many men in their thirties would do that?
They are so cute together, I think as I brush my teeth. Neither probably see themselves that way and would be mortified by the description. But that’s how I see them. Two strapping, proud men sharing the same name, a house, and a deep affection for each other.
Stiles has baggage. I know that. His parents seem like a disaster. And from what he hasn’t said, he’d gotten hurt in a past relationship which made him swear off women…until me. That must mean something.
I adore his grandfather and this lived-in house, the big, simple rooms and aged hardwood floors that creak beneath your feet. It could use some color. A few throws, toss pillows, and pretty flower arrangements selected from the garden would brighten the place up. A gazebo out back would be a nice touch, maybe even a swing on the patio. That’s where I’d spend my mornings, drinking coffee and overlooking the flowers in bloom, watching them grow year after year.
A light knock on the other side of the door steals me from my musings. Feeling silly for whiling away in a domestic fantasy, I put on my game face and open up.
“Did you forget something?” he asks, leaning casually against the doorjamb in shorts and nothing else.
“I don’t think so,” I say, feigning confusion.
“I do. You promised to sleep in my bed.”
