I run off to change, noting the dad joke. Corny, but I can’t help but laugh.
I call out that I’ll be right back and head through the bathroom to my actual apartment.
I peel off the smock, along with the wet shirt, completely forgetting that this is laundry day and I’ve not begun to do it. Boy, the man is really throwing me off my schedule, mentally.
I dig through my dresser to find exactly zero clean shirts or bras.
The only thing I have to wear is my winter jacket, which hangs on a hook in the studio.
I peek around the door, and Rowdy is standing there looking at one of my canvases with a pair of tufted titmice on a branch, his head tilted, his right hand scratching the back of his neck.
“Can you hand me my jacket? I’m in kind of a pickle.”
I stand behind the door and hold my arm around through the gap, and when Rowdy hands me my jacket, his hand brushes against my fingers.
Heat. Electricity. That’s all I can think about, then remember what I’m supposed to be doing.
What is wrong with me?
“Thanks,” I squeak and shut the door.
This is a nightmare, but at least he’s seeing me at my worst. There will be no mixed messages. The date with the plain-Jane artist is truly fake. I’m not out to impress anyone today.
That will be clear, also, as my hair looks like a bird’s nest, with pencils poking out of my messy bun. The paint smudges and zero amount of makeup also tell the truth about me. I’m not interested in anything but getting down to business.
When I come out of the bathroom, Rowdy is still studying my painting, but now standing at the other side, presumably looking at it from a different angle, his head tilted the other way. It’s just a bunch of birds, for heaven’s sake.
“Sorry about that,” I say.
He turns, his eyebrows lifted, as if I snapped him out of a zen moment with my art.
He waves off my apology, picks up one of the coffee drinks, and hands it to me.
“Oh, you didn’t have to. I’ve had my Diet Dr. Pepper for the day.”
“And a lavender almond latte with extra foam will wash the taste of that shit out of your mouth.”
I take a step back after accepting the cup.
“How did you know that’s my favorite drink?”
He shrugs. “People tell me things.”
“People have loose lips around here.”
“People is also me,” he says. “I’ve been doing lots of reconnaissance work on you.”
With all this talk about lips, I let my eyes roam over his face until they land on Rowdy’s mouth. He has this sort of sideways grin that’s both cute and hot at the same time. His teeth are nice and white, but slightly crooked in the front. His 5 o’clock shadow is dark and scruffy around those full lips, and I can’t help but wonder what that would feel like on my chin as we kiss, or as he kissed my throat, my shoulders, my…elsewhere…
He catches me staring, and just when I think he might make a smartass comment, his eyes go hooded.
Okay. I accept that he’s nice to look at, but all that and bedroom eyes? Not fair.
I swallow as Rowdy slowly brings his coffee cup to his lips, the steam escaping through the vent.
My nipples harden as he takes a drink, then purses his lips. The scruff on his neck moves as he swallows. I’m so close I can smell the dark coffee scent mixed with his personal spicy scent.
The inappropriate urge to kiss him is strong.
