You’re procrastinating.
One final—very shaky—breath, and I rap on the door.
Each second increases my level of stress, sweat gathering at the base of my spine. The sound of his footsteps approaching brings a cold clamminess to my fingers, the cup growing moist.
A wall of abs meets me as the door opens, snatching my breath.
Good golly and god bless my horny little soul. The vision of him, water droplets clinging to every inch of his utterly delectable stomach, will live in my mind until the end of my days. He’s like a fresh can of cold Coke ona hot summer’s day, and the urge to lick him attacks me with a ferocity that has me gripping my stupid cup and staring at him.
‘You all right?’ He asks, clearly unaware of the way his current partial disrobement affects me.
‘Um. Sorry. Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.’
Silence stretches for an uncomfortable moment, his eyebrow lifting. ‘Is there something you need?’
‘Oh my gosh. Sorry. Yes. I was hoping I could borrow a cup of milk? I’m fresh out and dying for a coffee.’ My words tumble out in a harried mess.
‘Borrow? You gonna bring it back?’
My mouth opens and closes, failing to find words. Then his face breaks into a smile, the dimple in one cheek nearly deep enough to use as a shot glass. ‘Just kidding. I’ll get you some milk.’
His fingers graze mine as he takes the cup, and I want to follow him inside.
But I have a job to do.
The moment he disappears, I reach for his keys, taking the clay from my pocket and pressing his door key into it. The key leaves a clean impression, and a jolt of accomplishment hits me.
I go to press the other side, but his footsteps interrupt me.
Fuck.
Dropping the keys back into the dish, I plaster a grin on my face. It must be veering on the side of crazed with the way his expression changes. The clay is warm in my hand, hiding behind my back, and he holds out the milk.
No. I need the other side of the key.
The milk sloshes in the cup as he holds it out to me. I take it in my empty hand. ‘Thanks. Actually, I need some sugar too. I totally forgot. Do you have any?’
Wet hair clings to his forehead, and his shoulders drop in a sigh. ‘Yeah, of course. Give me a minute.’
As soon as he’s out of view, I put the cup down and snatch up the keys, making the second impression while my fingers shake. The impression doesn’t have a solid edge.Damn it. I try again, my hands shaking like an old window in a storm.
Success.
I shove the clay in my pocket, thankful I wore loose trousers, as crushing the imprint would be a disaster.
The keys hit the bowl moments before he comes back, sporting a half-full bag of sugar.
‘Here you go.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, taking the sugar. ‘I’ll be able to make cookies now.’
‘You bake?’
No. But he doesn’t need to know that.
‘Sure. Don’t you?’
‘Nah.’
