Startled, I spun around at the sound of War’s voice.
He held out a t-shirt and an unopened pack of cotton boxers. “They’re small. Wrong size. Never returned them.”
In a daze, I accepted them. “Thank you.”
He nodded and left the room, shutting the door softly.
I stood in the elegant bedroom, staring at the spot where War had been. I didn’t understand him, not at all. He frustrated me to no end with his careless disregard about us being a couple. Most guys would run in the opposite direction at being corralled, but then he took me to the amusement park because I said I missed it, and now, here he was, taking care of me after he’d seen the blowup with my mother.
Desperate for a shower, this time to ease the tension within me weighing me down like lead, I entered the spacious bathroom done in light gray and deep green, stripped, and stepped into the shower stall.
A half hour later, clad in blue and gray check boxers and an overlarge, gray t-shirt almost concealing said shorts, I felt as if I could breathe a little easier now. I grabbed my clothes, along with the things I wore during the day, and wrapped them in the towel. With the bundle tucked under one arm, I padded along the corridor to the spacious living room on bare feet. The faint scent of coffee and something grilling teased my nose.
War stood near the stove, his back to me. The black sweats he wore hung low on his lean hips, and his shirtless body displayed a tonal gray and black tatt across his tan back, depicting an eerie night with a tombstone and birds—ravens perhaps?—flying to a dead tree. Chaotic abstracts were inked on his thick biceps.
And to a girl like me—an emotional mess with her protective walls down—he was too tempting.
My grip tightened on my bundle. I made my way past the sleek chrome and glass dining table, to the long, dark-gray marble island separating the gleaming modern kitchen from the rest of the place.
“Er, can I use your washer and dryer?” I asked.
He pivoted so fast, one would think he’d forgotten I was there, revealing his tattooed chest with macabre skeleton heads. But the inked, demonic lion’s head, sporting red eyes on his left pec, had my smile trembling awake. It was so him.
He rubbed his chest, drawing my attention to his roller-brush abs and the light trail of hair disappearing into his sweats.
“Yeah, sure. C’mon,” he said, tone gruff. He dropped his hand and led me through the kitchen to another door.
The space in the laundry was narrow, with the washer and dryer on one side and cupboards on the other. He took the clothes and towel I held, put them in the washer, then got the detergent.
“I can do that,” I offered.
“So can I. Just because I have a dick doesn’t mean I don’t know how to use one.” After theenlighteningremark, he powdered up, shut the dispenser, and switched on the machine.
I bit my lip to stop my smile.
He glanced back, amusement twitching his mouth. “I meant a washer.”
I burst out laughing. “I know.”
His smile faded. “It’s good to see you smile again.”
And that brought me right back to why I was here.
“Come.” His big palm spanning the small of my back, he moved me to the door and out of the suddenly too-small space. My breath hitched, feeling his body heat wrap around me, and I remembered him sucking on my earlobe. My stomach tensed, coiling me like a rubber band as desire stirred.
Oh, man. I hastily lowered my gaze, trying to get my equilibrium back.
“I made coffee. It’s decaf,” he clarified. “Don’t want you climbing the walls. Then I just might have to reroute that energy to me.”
I heard the teasing in his voice, and a part of me was so tempted. God knew, the last two years, with my withdrawal from dating, it made me conscious of how much I longed for what my friends had. Not marriage, but someone to love, and who loved me back unconditionally, and who didn’t let their dick lead them away the moment a new, more exciting face showed up.
And then there was War.
As much as I was drawn to him, I couldn’t let it happen. I was the type to fall heart-first into love. But love was just an illusion, as I learned the painful way, a fact my mother reinforced after every divorce.
War was the male version of her. He hooked up with any woman swishing her skirt in his direction, and then walked away. She fooled around with the good-looking,poorermen, then left.
Pressing a hand to my rioting stomach, I sat on the barstool War had pulled out at the counter for me before he went to the coffee machine.
