After a while, I put my laundry and Henry’s towel into the dryer and return to my laptop. I’m halfway through describing a naughty scene with Michael and I—uh, I mean Matthew and Annie—and it’s pretty good, if I say so myself.
“The water cascades over Matthew’s hard—” I hear from behind me and I snap my laptop shut, turning to see Michael peering over my shoulder.
“Stop it,” I say, feeling my cheeks color. When I hear it out loud like that it sounds ludicrous. I haven’t shown him any writing and thelastthing I want him to read is this. I take in the cheeky grin on his face and, despite myself, a smile slides onto my lips.
“Cute PJ’s.” He gestures to my bunny pants.
I grimace as I remember what I’m wearing. Still, nothing I can do about that now, and what difference would it make? I could be here in a ball gown and I’m sure he would be unaffected.
My eyes wander up and down his body before I can stop them. “Right back at you.” He’s wearing dark green and blue plaid pajama pants with a white T-shirt, his hair damp from the shower, looking gorgeous as usual. I swallow, trying not to look at his shoulders, clearly defined in the snug-fitting T-shirt.
He wanders around, surveying the washers. “Where’s the towel?”
“What do you mean?” I push to my feet, feigning innocence.
“Oh, come on.” He gives me a knowing smile. “There was sauce smeared all over the kitchen cabinets and the linen closet was open. It’s not exactly a job for Sherlock Holmes.”
I giggle. “He was very worried you would be mad at him.” I motion to the dryer behind me. “It’s in there.”
“Thanks.” He flashes me a grin, then his smile fades away. “Have you been avoiding me?”
“Um. Maybe.”
“I knew it! What have I done now?”
“Nothing…” An awkward laugh slips out. “Not really.”
He raises his hands to his hips, gaze pinned on me.
“It’s… I don’t know.” I lift a shoulder in a shrug. “I just feel weird around you.” Whoops. I hadn’t planned on being so honest but that just came out.
He raises his eyebrows. “Why?”
“Why? Because I have a huge crush on you, and every spare second I get I’m thinking up dirty things I want to do to you, then writing about it in a romance novel while trying to convince myself I’m notreallywriting about us, but rather two fictional characters who just happen to have similar names to us.”
Well, that’s what I should have said. But I can’t bethathonest. Instead I say, “I don’t know.”
A smile plays on his lips, his eyes lit with amusement as he watches me.
I frown as that familiar feeling of embarrassment creeps up my spine. “Stop that,” I say, gesturing to his expression. “You’re always doing that. Always laughing at me.”
His smile vanishes. “I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. You’re smirking. You’re always mocking me, like you think I’m just some hilarious joke.”
His eyes soften and his mouth curves into a gentle smile. “I’m not laughing at you, Alex. You make me smile and you make me laugh, but I’m not laughingatyou.”
“Well, just stop it.”
He chuckles, crossing his arms defiantly. “Stop what? Enjoying your company?”
“Yes,” I mutter, but I give him a wry smile anyway.
He chuckles again, then stands there with his arms folded, gazing at me.
“So.” I shift my weight. “Er, happy Thanksgiving.”
“Thanks, and you. What have you been doing?”
