Oh my God.
“I’m sorry. I just assumed…”
He’s shaking with laughter now, one hand clutching his stomach. “You thought I was so broke I was living in mycar?”
“I…” I rub my face, horrified. “I’m so sorry.”
He folds his arms across his chest as his laughter subsides, then leans against the kitchen island, observing me with amusement. I grab my things and start stuffing them back into the bags, burning up with mortification. After everything he’s done for me, all I’ve managed to do is insult him.
“Wait.” Myles puts a hand on my arm. “It’s okay, I get it. This place doesn’t exactly reek of money.” He leans over to peek into the bag. “What were you going to do, anyway?”
“Nothing,” I mumble, leaning back beside him, unable to meet his gaze. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey.” He turns to face me. “Don’t be sorry. It’s sweet. I’d like to see it, if that’s okay. It might still be nice to do this place up. And you’re right—I’m terrible at this stuff.”
I risk a glance at him. He’s smiling at me kindly, and I sigh. “Fine.” I reach into the bag and pull the curtains and sofa throw back out. “I made these. Nothing fancy, just some curtains and a throw to go over the sofa.”
Myles takes the navy fabric from me. “You made curtains? For both my windows?”
“Yep.” I hand him the throw I made. It’s also blue, but lighter than the curtains, with a faint plaid pattern over it. “And this is for the sofa.”
His forehead crinkles in confusion, so I take it from him and wander across the living room.
“Here. Like this.” I unfold the throw completely, pleased to see I got the measurements more or less right, and drape it over the threadbare sofa. Then I tuck it in along the back and down under the front. I turn back and Myles is grinning.
“That looks way better.” He strides over and sits down. “It’s softer too. I love it. Can I keep it?”
I laugh. “Well, yeah. That’s why I made it.”
“Can we put the curtains up too?”
I smile, delight blossoming in my chest. “You really like them?”
He nods, rising to his feet and grabbing the curtains. “With the sofa and the curtains, the place will definitely look nicer.” He glances up at the curtain rods and frowns. “Shit, how does this work?”
“Here.” I take the curtain from him and drag a chair over from the counter, then grab my little packet of hooks and set about hanging the curtains. When I step down to examine them, Myles is beaming.
“They’re great! You were right—this place was looking kind of bare. I hadn’t really noticed, but this is way better.” He turns to me and, before I can register what’s happening, he pulls me into a hug. “Thank you,” he murmurs into the top of my head.
But I can’t respond, because my whole body is suddenly buzzing, hyper-aware of all the places his body is pressing into mine. My head rests against the firm chest I was ogling a few moments ago, and all my nerve endings spring to life, tingling with—what is that? Lust? And that smell—that same zesty cologne I smelled when I first came here, that I smelled at the shop—mixing with the smell of his soap… it’s making my thighs quiver.
“You’re welcome,” I mumble as he releases me.
He’s just gazing down at me with a gentle smile on his mouth, apparently unaware of the effect that innocent hug had on me. “Cat… you’re so generous. I know you’ve been super busy with the shop but you still made time to do this. It’s really thoughtful.”
I swallow, wishing he’d take a step back, or crack one of his cocky lines to ease the tension snaking through me. But he doesn’t, so I wrestle my gaze away and turn back to the bags. “I did some other things too, if that’s okay?”
He chuckles, lifting a tattooed arm to rake it through his damp curls. “You can do whatever you like.”
I ignore the suggestion in his words as I hand him the cover for the comforter and the pillow cases. “You can put these on,” I mutter. Right now I don’t trust myself to go anywhere near his bed.
He saunters over and collapses back on the mattress, denim-clad legs splayed as he pulls the pillowcases over the pillows. His smoldering gaze is riveted to mine, and my heart stumbles against my ribs. My mind replays his words from a few days ago—I’m pretty good—and I have to force myself to look away.
I turn my back and focus studiously on fixing up the ottoman. I brought some of the fabric that I used to make the throw, and my staple-gun from the shop. I used to up-cycle furniture ages ago, back before Mark and I moved in together.
I kneel in front of the ottoman, pulling the fabric over one corner and stapling it under the top, out of sight. The staple-gun jams and I hold it up, firing a few times until it’s working again, then line up the fabric and staple some more.
Myles appears in front of me, watching with interest, but I ignore him as I work. Things feel different between us today. Maybe it’s because the last time I saw him I talked about my vibrator and he offered me sex. I don’t know. But I’m feeling all hot and bothered.
