“Your locks are absolute shit,” he said. “You should probably replace them with something more secure. All it took was a credit card to get in. Do you not have a deadbolt?”
Jesus, now he sounded like my dad.
He’d taken one look at the place and said, ‘This place isn’t safe.’
Not that I had anything to argue with him about. I mean, the place was old. They didn’t make security-conscious houses back in the twenties. The windows were all drafty. The back door could be kicked in with a swift wind. And the doors to the balcony upstairs didn’t even lock because the owner had lost the key. The same went for the deadbolt downstairs.
“I don’t have the key to it,” I admitted, my brain feeling fuzzy. “So it’s just a habit not to lock it.”
He grumbled something unintelligible, and I opened my eyes to see the lights lining the street shining through my windows bouncing off the sharp angles of his face.
Creed was drop-dead gorgeous.
He was also so freakin’ hot that he was light years out of my league.
He was the type of man that you saw on the covers of magazines at the grocery store, staring at you to the depths of your soul.
“What are you doing here?” I finally asked, my mouth dry.
Seriously. The man was potent.
Just the idea of him being in my house seemed incredibly erotic, and he wasn’t here for anything but to make sure I wasn’t dead.
“I came here because you weren’t answering the phone, and I didn’t want you to die in your sleep,” he admitted.
“I’m fine,” I lied. “You can go now. I’m sorry for not answering.”
He scoffed. “I’m not leaving if you say you’re dizzy when you stand.”
I felt my eyes drift closed again. “Then stay here, but since I’m fairly sure I’m not moving from this spot anytime soon, the only other place you can sleep is on my bed. Feel free to use it.”
He tilted his head. “I’m not sleeping in your bed.”
I shrugged. “Then I guess your only other option is a kitchen chair.”
“I could carry you,” he suggested, albeit reluctantly.
I snorted. “I’m perfectly fine right here. I even have a blanket.”
I pulled said blanket from the back of the couch and covered myself with it.
A hint of aftershave hit me, and a frown of confusion marred my face.
It smelled like the aftershave my stepfather used.
Weird.
“You don’t have a blow-up mattress or anything?” he asked.
“No,” I grumbled into the blanket, my nose wrinkling.
It really smelled.
As in, overly.
And since I’d never been super fond of my stepfather, or his aftershave, I kind of wanted to throw the blanket off of me.
But that would’ve required effort, and I didn’t have any of it in me to give at that moment in time.
