Kit
I blink up at him for a few heartbeats before comprehension sets in. Bedroom. Now.
Let’s do this.
I guess it’s time.
He holds his hand out.
Okay, then.
I slurp the last of the bubbles, wishing I could drink three more glasses, and work hard to make the switch from bubbles to business.
He watches me as I drink, blue eyes gone completely opaque, dark and hard. Unfriendly, almost, in a way that tickles my tummy and straightens my back. Sends my blood boiling south again, even as a fresh hint of unease slides through my veins. It’s just the two of us here in my little, girlie cottage of a home. My grandparents’ cottage. The hotel was different, though it’s hard to pinpoint all the reasons why.
He’s huge, first of all. I mean, I knew that, but I didn’t think about how he’d take up all the space—not to mention air—when standing in my house.
I hand him the glass and point out the way to my room, not for one second allowing myself to wonder where he’s going after this session with me. Does he have a date he doesn’t want to be late for? A night out with the guys? Will he tell them about how he came straight from an impregnation?
Abreeding, as he so gallantly put it.
My skin flushes hot at the thought. No way. This man doesn’t tell anyone anything. It’s one of the things that both intrigues and concerns me about him. What kind of person keeps their secrets held so tightly to their chest, bares so little of their insides to the outside world?
Unless there’s just nothing in there. That’s possible too, I guess.
Yeah, right. If anything, I’d say this man is too complex. Rife with complication.
Then there’s the fact that I’ve not mentioned this whole set-up between us to a soul.
He pauses beside my door, waiting for me to enter my room before following me in and that strikes me as such a strangely gentlemanly move from a man who looks like a thug that I pause, suddenly flummoxed.
Aside from his crass mouth, he has been a gentleman, every step of the way. For some inexplicable reason, that knowledge lodges in the narrow hollow at the base of my throat.
I almost tell him to leave the door open.
What must he think of my place, this man with the violent past and the nomadic present? He’s got money now, despite his misspent youth. He can probably afford to stay in nice places when he travels. Does he notice the cheap plastic blinds I didn’t bother changing out when I got the house? The bedding, clean, but rumpled, because no matter how hard I try, I’ve never been able to make a straight line or perfectly smooth out a sheet in my life. The little striped rug on just my side of the bed, boughtbecause I keep the heat low to save money and I hate cold feet in the morning.
There’s none on the other side, of course. Why bother, right?
Looking at it now, it’s painfully obvious that this is a one-person bed. A one-person home. A one-person life.
For the first time, I wonder what his place is like. Though he gave me his address when I hired him, I’ve got no idea where he lives. Is it a dump, a swank bachelor pad, maybe a lonely little house like mine, in need of TLC?
No. It’s impermanent, I know that much. Even if it’s a place he owns, it’s probably a crash pad. Simple, utilitarian, that’s what I’d guess knowing him now.
“It’s um, it’s not fancy,” I say, immediately annoyed at myself for feeling like I’ve got to explain my bedroom.
“It’s nice.”
“A little too bright in here.”
His dark brows lift. “Okay.”
“I…I don’t know how to do this.” If we’re looking at each other, I mean.
“How to do it? You did it the other night just fine.” A wicked little half-grin. “Not to mention out in the hallway just now.”
I let out a frustrated groan.
