Several rolling eyes emojis appeared, and I laughed.
Then I recalled something I wanted to do to torment my friends. Smirking now, I Googled the info I needed, scrolling through hundreds of images of the temple, and I finally found the pictures I sought. I picked up my tablet, and grinning like a loon, I started drawing the erotic Kamasutra pose…
My dry throat and gnawing belly finally had me relenting and stopping work. I saved my raunchy illustration to complete later, crawled off the massive bed, and groaned, my numb legs and ass making their unhappiness known. Grimacing, I stretched my stiff limbs, then pushed my feet into my sneakers, grabbed my novel, and headed downstairs, looking for War.
He wasn’t in the kitchen or the living room, either, but the smell of something savory with hints of cheese teased my nose.
More concerned with his whereabouts, I set my book on the couch and crossed to the old wooden table near the panoramic window, and peered through the rustling rain. Surely, he didn’t go back out in this downpour to finish trimming? I knew he wanted to get the massive yard done first.
No sign of him outside, either.
Frowning, I snagged a soda from the fridge then made my way back along the corridor to the first door. The room facing the front was empty, not only of War but also of furniture. But whoa! The garish, sickly-sweet blinding pink had me wincing. Good thing it would be painted over soon.
I peeled back the tab from my cherry cola. The thing popped with a hiss, and I took a much-needed deep gulp, wetting my dry throat, then headed further down the corridor to the open door. I stopped just inside the room.
Yep. War was here, working on the skirting, his back to me.
This room was spacious, too, with sliding doors opening onto its own patio. The painted walls resembled the lightest blue of summer showers. I smiled, the artist in me stoked at the whimsical color name. Maybe I was too much of a romantic. Little good it did me.
Life had a way of not only throwing curveballs at me when down but hauling me up and flinging me into another riptide situation—one that left me feeling as if I swam against the current with no way of saving myself. And all I could do was try and stay afloat.
Inhaling deeply, I shut out my tumultuous thoughts and stepped into the middle of the room.
War had his EarPods on, so he didn’t know I was there, observing him paint the sanded skirting boards. His jeans rode low, revealing his charcoal-gray underwear.
The urge to go over grabbed hold and…and then what?
I’d agreed to get this itch scratched, but he’d obviously changed his mind.
I gnawed my lip, not understanding him. As if I ever did.
War was a contradiction. He appeared the quieter one among his two friends, but apparently, he was a force to be reckoned with on ice, and with a temper to match, or so I’ve heard. More, he was kind and considerate, a side I’d witnessed recently. It still knocked me for a loop that he’d taken me to the amusement park merely because it brought back happy memories of being with my dad.
He stilled as if sensing he wasn’t alone and glanced over his shoulder, arching an eyebrow when he saw me. His gaze did a quick once-over of me as he rose, removing his earbuds and putting them in his jeans pocket, his other hand still holding onto the small paintbrush. “You’re done?”
Pale blue paint smeared his fingertips, and a spray speckled one corded forearm, making me want to run my finger over the veins running up his arm to the glimpse of the tattoos on his biceps peeking out from his black t-shirt sleeve.
Man, I needed to get a grip on myself. “For now.” I waved to the walls. “This is a nice color.”
“The original shade of purple and me just didn’t get on,” he drawled, making me laugh. “The previous owner must have had kids.”
“Yes, I figured. I saw the other room.” I wandered to the sliding door and pressed my palm to my chest, trying to get my stupid heart to function and not melt at his off-beat humor. “And he liked his privacy, too, with all these trees.”
“Yeah.” I heard the smile in his voice. “I put something in the oven for lunch,” he said then. “Should be done in a half hour or so.”
“Thanks.” I glanced over my shoulder and met his quiet stare. “So, you did all this renovation yourself?”
“Most of it. I got the pros to do the bathrooms and kitchen. Now I want to get the painting finished and the yard not looking so much like a jungle before hockey season starts,” he said, his attention back on the skirting board still to be painted.
“So you’ll be traveling for the game?” Duh! Of course, he would.
“Yeah, when we play out of state. I have some time until the craziness starts,” he said, a faint smile tugging one corner of his mouth.
Ignoring the dip in my stomach, knowing he would be gone—but it was still several weeks until pre-season started—I made my way to the paint tins. One remained sealed with the smears of blue around the rim and lid, and the open one sported brilliant white. “Can I help?”
“It won’t get you out of your weeding duty,” he teased.
I rolled my eyes and picked up a small, clean paintbrush near the tins. “Some boyfriend you are. Where do I start?”
