Casey freaking Esparza was standing in his living room. “That’s really okay,” Rio said as he tossed his own bag onto the floor.
A mountain of clean laundry covered one end of his sofa—exactly where he’d dumped it a week ago, when a leak under his kitchen sink required the use of his laundry basket to contain the detritus of cleaning supplies that had been stored there—but that he’d never put back away.
And oh, shit, a pile of snail-mail was on the kitchen counter where he’d left it—junk mail addressed to Mario Rosetti. He deftly flipped it over so that the backs of the envelopes were face-up.
“I continue to be happy to help, however I can,” Rio told her, searching the place for anything else he might’ve missed. But he lived like many of his single teammates—in a furnished apartment, with only the bare minimum of clothing and electronics. Most of his personal belongs—books, CDs, DVDs, photos—lived in a storage space with a special military discount, back in New York.
Although Dave had given him a tiny, plastic screaming goat for his birthday. It sat in a place of honor on the otherwise bare little desk that held Rio’s battered laptop.
“Do you want some coffee?” he asked Casey. He didn’t have much in his fridge, but he always had coffee, and since she liked hers black, his lack of milk and sugar was moot. But she was shaking her head no. “How about a bed?” he added. “Maybe another nap is a better idea.”
He swept the laundry up off the couch and carried it into the apartment’s tiny bedroom. The third drawer in his dresser was mostly empty, so he dumped it in there. Casey had followed him, picking up the tightie-whities and socks he’d dropped in his path, like some odd underwear version of Hansel and Gretel. “Thanks.”
He took them from her, resisting the urge to look around in a panic for some previously unnoticed but obvious sign that this was the bedroom of a not-gay man. Although, calm down there, Genius. Rio had been in Luc’s—real Luc’s—bedroom enough to know that a bedroom was a bedroom was a bedroom. The only thing he was revealing here was that—exactly like his cousin by the way—he was a tad messy.
His bed was an unmade jumble of ugly-ass plaid sheets—flannel and on-sale, and since his eyes were closed when he slept, he previously hadn’t much cared that they were green, gray, and purple, although now he was a little embarrassed by that fact. His dirty laundry was an uncontained, simmering monster, spilling out of his hamper and covering the floor of the closet. He quickly closed the closet door.
One of these days, he’d graduate to a place where he’d have his own washer and dryer. Until then, he had better things to do.
“Just let me change the sheets,” Rio told her—he’d seen a clean set in that giant armload of laundry he’d just carried, “and you can crash in here.”
“You don’t need to do that,” she said, kicking off her sneakers and flopping onto the bed face first. “Holy crap, you have a great bed.”
“Rental,” he said. “But yeah, I lucked out. Okay, well... I’ll be unconscious on the couch if you need me. Bathroom’s just back here—” he pointed to the tiny room she’d walked past on her four-step journey from the living room “—and if you want something to drink, there’s a pitcher of filtered water in the fridge and... No...?”
She’d sat up and was looking at him with an expression of pure dismay as she again shook her head no. “I’m not kicking you out of your bed. There’s plenty of room. We’ve done this before.”
“True,” he said. “But—”
Casey cut him off, flopping back dramatically as she moaned, “Please don’t make me sleep on your lumpy, rented sofa.”
Rio laughed. “I gave you the bed.”
She shot him such a dark look that he had to laugh again.
“All right, all right, you win,” he said. “I just need to hit the bathroom and, jeez, brush my teeth, at least. Have you smelled me?”
She’d burrowed under the covers and made some mumbled noises that included the phrase “you always smell good,” and an indignant sounding “no fair, I didn’t get to brush anything, have you smelled me?”
As Rio closed the bathroom door behind him, he took out his phone to check for text messages, but there was still a giant, gaping nothing from Dave, goddamnit.
Hey, he typed, texting him, I’m starting to feel like a real piece of shit over here. I’m still with Casey and I want to tell her the truth. There’s drama with Jon. He’s OK, but Jesus god he’s a load and a half. Call real Luc for the love of god, because he’s NOT a load and a half. Also? Call me as soon as you can.
Casey woke up in the middle of Luc’s big bed, completely draped over him. She’d not only snuggled up against his very solid shoulder, but she’d also thrown her right leg across him as he lay on his back. Across his hips and... oh yes.
Oh, no.
Oh, shit.
She’d started to move, but now she froze as he made a soft sound of pleasure, still fast asleep as he pressed up against her.
Oh, shit.
She was trying to decide whether to slo-o-o-wly lift herself off and away from him, or to do a quick roll that would be almost certain to wake him, when his eyes opened, a mere few inches from her face.
“Hey,” he said, his voice rusty.
It was definitely time to move fast because she no longer had to worry about waking him. Except now she was frozen because up-close like this, his eyes were too damn pretty.
