But now the idea has been broached by my subconsciousness, I can’t seem to get it out of my head, and as Boen opens his door with a smile, I immediately scan his body, wondering what he would look like naked.
“Come in.” Boen opens the door wide, almost as wide as his smile. I’ve gone from getting him to talk without grimacing to picturing him naked. That’s a far jump, even for me.
I glance around, seeing no shoes, so I leave on my flip-flops. I’ve been inside once when Dean and Evelyn lived here but I remember it as being cold and pristine. It’s still not the friendliest house I’ve been in, but Boen has made some improvements. There are books out of place in the living room, pictures on the shelves, and is that a PS5 controller on the chair? A small desk sits in the corner like a naughty student. Beside it, a whiteboard is propped against the wall, covered in formulas and undecipherable words.
“Wow.” I cross the room to get a closer look. “This makes no sense to me.”
“Molecule modelling,” he says. “Some ideas for my thesis.”
“That doesn’t help.” I turn away from his work. “My thesis was about how colours affect your mood.”
“That’s somewhat scientific.”
“Not really. It was a way I could play with colours.”
Other than the desk, there isn’t much furniture in the room, which shows off the most amazing hardwood floor. “This is a great space. We should have a picnic,” I say with a skip of excitement.
“I have a table… chairs…” The smile is gone and now he looks confused, which is a good look for him. Adorably confused. “The floor?”
“Haven’t you ever flaked out on the floor?” I demand.
“It’s a floor… I don’t really flake, whatever that is.”
“And you don’t think that’s a problem? C’mon, live a little. Show me you’re not uptight.” I wink. “It’s a great floor. A person can do a lot on a floor like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like…slide.” Taking a running start, I slide a few feet along the hardwood, which is waxed to a brilliant shine. My cheap flip-flops with the non-existent treads are perfect skiis that send me rocketing right into Boen.
He grabs me around the waist as we fight to keep our balance. “You like to slide.”
“I like to do a lot of things.” The hem of my T-shirt rose when he grabbed me, so Boen’s left hand is touching bare skin.
He takes a deep breath, which is more than I can do. Tingles spread from where his hand is. “Are you smelling me?” I whisper.
“You smell nice. Like brown sugar and vanilla and…” He sniffs again. “Apples?”
“My shampoo is apples, and Demi made me a brown sugar body scrub to use. You have a good nose.” Before I can think of what touching him would entail, I run a finger down the slope of his nose, resting in the divot of his upper lip for a long, drawn-out second and then over his lips. Boen’s bottom lip catches on my finger.
His mouth opens and closes and I can’t stop staring at it.
This is not a good idea; this is a verybadidea.
But still, my hands slip around his waist as I bury my nose into his chest and inhale loudly. “Now I get to smell you. Clean clothes.” I lean back with a reluctant smile. “My nose isn’t as good as yours.”
“You have a very nice mouth.”
As does he, which is why I can’t stop thinking about how much I’d like to kiss his very nice mouth. I don’t know if it’s the closeness or the damned drink that makes rise on my toes just…a…bit… We’re pressed together, so close there isn’t space for a breath between us.
His eyes seem to glaze over and I’m not sure if it’s drink or desire.
“My mouth is nice except when you don’t like the things that come out of it,” I say, leaning back to put some distance between me and his very nice mouth. “We should eat.” A little noise at the back of my throat escapes as I step away. “Mrs. Gretchen’s orders.” I pick up my basket, my hand clenching on the handle to steady myself.
I don’t know if I’m disappointed or relieved. I’ve never been so attracted to someone who didn’t like me.
Boen grabs my arm as I head for the kitchen. “You want a picnic.” His fingers trail down the inside of my arm and I make another little noise.
“Table is fine,” are the only words I can articulate as Boen skims my palm, the tips of our fingers pressing together for a moment.
