How had he turned his empty house into being sexy? There was something wrong with me. “That you do.”
“You can help me,” he decided, reaching around to unzip my coat. I let him. It was a necessary thing to do as the warmth of his house—and his body—made me desperate to shed this top layer. But somehow it was sensual, too. He moved the zipper down slowly, his chest pressing into my back, his cheek caressing mine, his stubble tickling and making me excessively aware that we were two grown adults alone in his home.
The zipper reached the end of its journey, and he pulled back so I could shrug out of it. When Sam toed off his shoes, I toed off mine.
“Okay, give me the tour,” I told him.
“Don’t judge me,” he murmured. But still, he took my hand and led me around. The living room, the completely empty dining room, the fancy kitchen that was the most furnished because of all the appliances. “I spend the most time in here,” he said as he pointed at the island stools and eat-in kitchenette.
“It’s fancy.”
“I’ve been updating slowly. The house structure needed a lot of work. The bathrooms needed help. This room took methe longest.” There wasn’t arrogance in his voice, only facts. It was a humble sort of admission, a modest assessment. He had very expensive appliances, and the details from the trim to the original-style ceiling were cared for and invested in. But he worked hard for these things—to afford them and to care for them.
“I’m impressed, Sam. You work hard on your business, and you work hard on your house . . . what do you do for fun?”
He tucked his hands into his back pockets. “Those things are fun.”
“I like to read,” I told him.
He held my gaze. “I remember.”
My cheeks flushed. “You act like you’ve always liked me.”
His smile was small and secretive. His green eyes warmed with something too hot to touch. “Do you want to see upstairs?”
“What’s upstairs?”
He tilted his head back the way we’d come. “My bedroom.”
Taking my hand again, he led me up the polished wood stairs. I peeked in the rooms, noticing that most of them were empty except one that had all the bones of a home office but was in absolute disarray. The desk piled high with papers and odds and ends, was pushed to the middle of the room, and drop cloths covered the wood floor. One wall had several squares of different shades of blue as if he was still deciding on paint colors. The sight of the home DIY project made my tummy flip for some reason. It was so normal, so adult . . . so completely the Sam of today. I couldn’t help but feel like I was drowning in this man’s presence.
At the end of a long hall, he pushed a door open to reveal his bedroom. I expected more of the same. Either a mattress on the floor or an unfinished project that would give me only a glimpse of his vision.
Instead, I found the most beautiful space. The walls were painted a deep, stormy gray. The rest of the tones were rich woods and deep earth tones. There was a massive king-size bed at the back of the room with heavy nightstands and matching lamps on either side. A small sitting area, including a leather love seat and matching recliner, was pushed off to one side of the room, facing a large TV. The other side shared space for a big, modern bathroom and a huge walk-in closet.
It was clear that Sam spent most of his time up here. His house was too big for him, a man who’d come from a family of nine. He preferred his comfortable space, his island of isolation, his peaceful refuge.
He inhaled deeply from behind me, and I realized I hadn’t said anything. He’d been waiting for my reaction, but I’d been soaking in the space so completely I’d forgotten to say anything out loud.
“It’s so you,” I told him, hoping to put him at ease. “It’s perfect.”
“It’s probably a little bachelor pad-like, huh?”
I thought back to Hudson’s apartment. He’d had enough IKEA furniture to put things in every room, but it was disjointed and cheap looking. Nothing matched, and he’d not cared enough to style anything.
Sam was the opposite. He put thought into every piece, every part. He might not rush to fill a room with anything that would fit, but the pieces he did move in were cared for, treated with respect.
I had been expecting a frat house and got something that belonged in a magazine instead.
“Not at all.” My voice sounded too breathy as I turned to face him. We stared at each other only a few feet apart.
“Are you hungry?” he asked after a minute.
I was hungry, but not for supper. I closed the distance between us and pulled his face to mine. He met me halfway in a hungry, desperate kiss that had me reaching up on my tiptoes and twining my arms around his neck.
His hands landed on my waist and held me tightly against him. Our mouths explored in a way that was freer than before, more intentional, more . . . determined.
I’d been afraid of his kiss yesterday at the Meyer’s. And earlier tonight we’d been chilled by the outdoors and our confessions. But now, in the middle of his space, knowing all I knew, having lost the burden of miscommunication, I wanted him like I had all those years ago.
