That’s not my thing.
Not because I don’t enjoy sex. I do. But someone just slipping into my bedroom?
That’s not a choice.
That’s not mutual.
That’s not respect.
And I don’t disrespect.
“What kind of problem, child?” Faye tilts her head, and her massive hat bobs hearts out in every direction.
I’m surprised it’s still perched on her head after our little collision.
“This room”—there’s an edge to her voice that’s almost convincing—“two people are in it. One of which doesn’t belong here.” Her fiery hazel eyes glare at me, all heat and conviction.
Ouch.
There’s not even a crack in her stare.
Oh, she’s good at playing the victim.
She’s really good.
“Heavens, are you sure?” Wilma’s silver eyebrows knit together under her steel-grey hair.
“Yes. I’m sure.” Her arm snaps back to point at me. “A naked man is standing in my room.”
“My room,” I say just to watch her shoulders tense the way they do.
There’s a pull to her I can’t place. It’s different from the usual shed-clothes-and-fuck routine women play. But she isn’t following the script. She’s denying her true intentions and playing some accidental double-booked room game.
Or I’m not following the script.
I want to hate this game, but I just can’t seem to.
“Oh my.” Wilma hands her teacup and saucer toLittle Miss I’m Not Here For That.
She was here for it.
The older woman slides a clipboard from under her arm. “Naked man in your room. Let me see.”
She lifts the reading glasses dangling from the string around her neck and rests them on her nose.
Meanwhile, Faye blinks.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then her gaze drops, briefly and unapologetically, to my bare torso before diving down further.
I’m suddenly very aware that the pillow might not hide as much as I want.
Why didn’t I just put on some damn pants?
