I pull the card for the sofa, along with the matching living room pieces, then follow Renleigh into the next department where she helps pick out a dining table, dishes and silverware, and some linens. By the time we make it to the register, I’ve rung up about ten grand in Ikea furnishings and décor, most of which will be delivered. I do, however, get to take home one very important item—the bookcase.
Renleigh waits near the exit with the long box on a rolling cart, and I back my truck to the loading area. It’s starting to sprinkle, so one of the employees rips off a large sheet of plastic to use as a tarp, and Renleigh helps me wrap the box as I slide it into the truck bed.
Our ride home is a lot lighter, and I’m careful not to drill too deeply with questions about her dad and her coming home to care for him. I gleaned enough details for now on the trip out, and I get the sense she isn’t keen on sharing personal information with people she doesn’t know well. So, that’s my next step—getting to know her well. And to do that, I the two of us should spend a lot more time together.
Maybe, say, a sleepover.
“You know, I could really use a hand putting the SNUFLEUPERGIS together.” I make up the name of the shelf because there’s no way I am ever going to remember what it’s really called. My attempt makes Renleigh laugh.
“You should call Roddy. I bet he’s got a free evening.” She smiles at me with tight lips, and I groan teasingly.
“Are you really relegating me to spending my night with Roddy? I’m trying to be smooth here.” I pull off the highway andturn down the long rural road that leads toward Sweetwater’s town center.
“Mmm, you are smooth, Hunter Reddick. And I bet those lines get the job done with most girls.” She flashes me a smug grin, and I hate that she thinks I’m a player.
“I can’t say I’ve thrown out that line before.”
“Oh, am I your first IKEA date?” Her expression reads that she’s sure she’s not.
“Uh, yeah. I’m not buying out the IKEA catalogue every weekend to impress the ladies. I honestly thought we’d have some fun. And didn’t we? Have fun?”
She blinks a few times when I glance at her, and her lips part but remain silent. I sigh through my nose as I look back to the roadway.
I turn into her historic neighborhood and wind my way toward the Blackwood home. As I pull to a stop, Renleigh unbuckles her seat belt and lunges across the center console, pressing her lips to my cheek. I freeze at her touch, then slowly swivel my head as her fingertips graze against my jawline and I turn to face her.
“I did have fun. A lot of it, actually.” She sucks in her bottom lip, and her eyes flit to my mouth.
Fuck it.
I wrap my hand around her wrist, holding her hand against my face while my other hand moves to nudge the bottom of her chin, coaxing her mouth up just enough that I can press a soft kiss to her lips. I restrain myself, limiting our kiss to a chaste, dusting of skin on skin, though it takes every ounce of will power in my body to stop myself from nipping at her plump bottom lip and dragging her body into my lap.
“You sure you don’t want to come back to my place and help me build the . . .” I look up through my lashes, and she chuckles.
“The SNUFLEUPERGIS?”
I drop my gaze back to hers, and my mouth curves into a faint grin.
“Yes, the SNUFLEUPERGIS. What do you say?”
My knuckle tickles her jawline, and her gaze narrows and grows more certain.
“They give you one of those Allen wrenches for that. I think you’ll be just fine.” She slides back into her seat and pushes open her door, letting herself out before I have a chance to run over there and do it for her.
“I had a nice time, Hunter Reddick, number one draft pick.”
And for the second time in less than a week, she leaves me with those words and a cock so hard I could use it to pinch hit in tomorrow’s game.
Chapter 8
Renleigh
8
Renleigh
I don’t sleep well. If I can make it through the night without waking up a dozen times with a racing mind, I call that a win. So the fact I’m blinking my eyes open and it’s bright in my room has me scratching my head a bit.
I didn’t drink last night. And while I don’t know Hunter well, I don’t get the sense he’s the type of guy to roofie a woman with laced Swedish meatballs. I sit up and stretch my arms over my head, expecting to feel achy or sore perhaps, but no. I feel . . . great.
