Rowan whimpers and lets his head loll back once I enter the kitchen.
I click my tongue. “I’m wearing shorts,” I declare, setting his clothes down before lifting my shirt just enough to expose my hip. “See?”
He squints an eye as he refocuses on my bare legs. “Are you sure those are shorts?”
“Yep.” I smirk.
“What have I done to deserve this?” he whines.
I huff. “Well, first of all, you?—”
“I wasn’t asking you. That question was for the man upstairs,” he interrupts me to mumble, and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry at the way he’s still devouring me with his one good eye.
The clicking of claws over the floor keeps some of the tension at bay this time. “You’re lucky I didn’t makeyouwear the shorts,” I tellhim, gesturing toward the stack of clothes on the counter before I squat down to pet Frankie.
“Thanks.” His brows draw in closer when he notices the boxer shorts sandwiched between the T-shirt and baggy sweatpants. “Are these …”
“Yeah, they’re yours,” I confirm matter-of-factly as Oscar approaches.
He finally glances down at me, but his expression is unreadable. “You kept them?”
I shrug shyly, scratching Oscar behind his ears. “They were comfy. Seemed like a waste to throw them out.”
“You’ve been wearing them?” he asks incredulously.
“Of course. I always save a token from my victims,” I retort, looking up to narrow my eyes at him.
His expression softens, and he bites his lip as he stifles a smile. “Okay, I deserved that.”
“Don’t forget to moisturize—I mean, have a nice shower,” I add in a sinister tone and tilt my head in the direction of the bathroom, and he chuckles as he finally takes off down the hall.
As soon as the door closes behind him, I give each of my pups one more affectionate squish and scurry over to the guest bedroom to tidy up. I’m fluffing an old pillow when Rowan waltzes into the open doorway a few minutes later, his hair a damp, tousled mess and the outline of his chest visible behind my threadbare T-shirt.
“Thanks, but you really shouldn’t trouble yourself any more than you already have,” he tells me, but I barely hear him over the sound of my desperation. Which reminds me, I should probably keep my mouth closed while I’m ogling him.
I force myself to look away. “I can’t remember the last time anyone’s stayed in here. Well, except for the nights when my ex couldn’t stand sleeping in the same bed with me …” I cringe as I trail off.
Why do I keep doing that? I haven’t been able to talk about my failed marriage in front of anyone, yet I seem to contract verbaldiarrhea every time I’m with Rowan. All he has to do is look at me, and everything just comes pouring out.
“We’ve already established that he was an idiot,” Rowan offers with a soft smile.
“That’s not exactly reassuring, especially coming from the last man to walk out on me,” I mutter before I can think better of it.
Dammit, Claire.
Apparently, my involuntary confessions aren’t only limited to the deep, dark secrets related to my divorce but also include the rest of the emotions I’ve spent a lifetime suppressing. I guess that’s cool, though, even if I’d rather die than come off so needy and wounded.
His expression falls, and I’m tempted to reassure him that no one’s as tired of my lack of a filter than I am. Instead, I do the next best thing and blurt out something offensive this time.
“But don’t worry, I’ve washed the sheets since he moved out, so you should be fine.” I clear my throat to disguise the wobble in my voice as I move to dart past Rowan.
“Hold on,” he commands, side-stepping and blocking my escape.
I attempt to shove him out of the way, but he covers my hands with his own and flattens my palms against his chest. His heart pounds violently against his ribs, and I drag my gaze up to find his eyes looking more bloodshot than before.
“It’s fine. Just let me go,” I whisper.
“Not yet,” he says firmly. It’s unnerving, but not in the way I’d expect from a man holding me in place against my will.
