“Sentimental value.” I tossed the shirt over his shoulder. Somehow, some way, even after showering with my soap, he still mostly smelled of himself: pinewood and early mornings. “Of course.”
David snorted. “Didn’t take you for the sentimental type. That’s… interesting.”
He said “interesting” as if it were a change in expectation. A disappointing awakening.
“Didn’t take you for the questioning type,” I shot back.Caring about disappointing him wasn’t typically high on my priority list. But a pinch of frustration burrowed its way into my chest, making itself a nice, happy home.
“Just starting a conversation,” he said simply. “My questions are arbitrary and meaningless, like most during small talk.”
I laughed dryly. “We’re not having a conversation. You’re judging me while I wash your clothes, give you something warm to wear, and offer you something to drink.”
He raised a brow. “Did I miss that last part?”
“It was coming up. I’m making coffee. You want some?”
“It’s a little late for caffeine, don’t you think?” Thankfully, David finally tugged on the shirt. He looked funny with a towel as a bottom, but unless he wanted to wear my dolphin shorts, that’d have to do.
When I smiled at the thought of him squeezing into my shorts, he frowned at me.
“Why are you looking like that?” he asked, every word infused with suspicion.
I shook my head. “No reason. Was that a no on the coffee?”
David didn’t look like he believed my lie for a second, but said, “I’ll take some water.”
“Coming up.” I went to the door, pausing before I left to say, “Touch nothing. If you do, I’ll know.”
“Your sentimental clutter is safe with me.” He drew an X across his chest.
I made a noise of disapproval. He winked and waved me off. It took less than five minutes to turn on my machine and slip in a flavor pod. Once I got back into the room with his cup of water, David was lounging on my bed. He’d spread a blanket and rearranged the pillows so he remained propped up. He flipped through one of my sketchbooks that’d been on thebookshelf.
“Uh, excuse me?” I snatched the sketchbook from him. My heart hammered at him, of all people, seeing my random doodles.
I was no artist. In fact, I was whatever the opposite of an artist was. But on my worst days, when the thoughts were anvils, and I was on the verge of plucking at my hair for too long to hide the damage, I had to put pen to paper.
“I said, don’t touch.” I pinned the book against my chest.
“You drew those?” He sat up a little straighter, which loosened his towel. I frowned at the sight. I felt as if I had swallowed ice, and it was stuck in my chest, melting painfully slowly. David’s brow raised as he studied how tightly I clung to my secret relaxation tool.
“None of your business. Now, here.” I shoved a glass of water in his direction, its contents almost spilling over the edge.
He took it and barely mumbled, “Thank you.”
I tossed a blanket over his legs before slipping my sketchbook into a drawer and sitting back down at my desk.
He chuckled, readjusting the blanket on his lap. “What was that for?”
“Your thighs were showing. No one wants to see that.”
“You sure? Because you seemed to look.”
Before I could respond, my phone buzzed. I glanced at the caller ID and winced.
“What?” David asked, smelling blood in the water.
“Nothing.” I shoved down the guilt about sending the call to voicemail and opened a fresh Word doc to start my homework. The phone buzzed again. The guilt grew limbs, ready to run laps across my stomach lining.
“You need to get that?” he asked.
