“Holy fuck, man. This room is the size of my entire apartment!” I yell, taking a flying leap and landing on his bed with a bounce.
“Li, could you kindly get your nasty travel clothes off my bed?” Damon asks gently. His tone is always soft with me, eventhough I don’t think through most of the shit I say or the things I do. If he gets frustrated with me, he never shows it.
“Oh, right,” I say, forgetting that Damon doesn’t like ‘outside’ clothes to touch his sheets or comforter because he sleeps naked, and he can’t stand the germs.
Quickly stripping to my boxers—they don’t count because they didn’t touch the airplane seat or the booth in the restaurant—I plop back onto his bed while he methodically unpacks; fancy-ass boxers in the top left drawer, socks, top right. Slacks, jeans, and all shirts hung in the closet.
When he turns back around to find me mostly naked, he gives a small shake of his head and continues hanging his shit up.
“What do you want to do first?” I ask, lacing my fingers behind my head, getting comfortable.
“We’ve gotta pick up our rental skis and boots by five tonight, so let’s get that out of the way,” he says.
Geez, I forgot all about having to do rentals.I’m so glad he’s in charge of trip planning.
“Sounds good, and, uh, thanks for taking care of all of that,” I say with a small smile. Damon never makes me feel bad about being so scatterbrained, but sometimes I just wish I could be more like him. Prove to him I’m not as stupid as everyone thinks.
Until he looks at me and says, “You know I don’t mind, Li. I’m happy to do it,” with so much sincerity in his tone that all my insecurities are swept away.
After hanging the last of his fancy pullovers in the closet, he turns back to me with an arched brow.
“You wearing that to get fitted for your boots?” He waves a hand toward my naked torso, making me laugh. God, I haven’t laughed this much since the last time he and I were together. I miss being around him.
“Think they’d give us a discount if I did?” I ask, flexing my abs.
He shrugs a shoulder while staring at my contracted torso. “Either that or arrest you.”
“Hmm, it’s too early in the trip to have to be bailed out of jail. Pants it is.”
I roll off the bed, pick up my discarded clothes, and walk back down the short hallway to my room.
Since I’ll have to roll my pant legs up to try on the boots, I slip into a pair of sweats to make life easier on myself.
I grab the matching hoodie and find Damon waiting for me in the kitchen.
When he sees me, he has a funny expression on his face.
“What’s that look for?” I ask, wrinkling my nose at his obvious judgment.
“How do you manage to make a matching sweatsuit look that good?” he asks, once again saying exactly what I need to hear.
Damon’s standing at the fridge, so I walk over to him and wrap my arms around his shoulders, pressing my hoodie-clad chest to his back. My athletic build is a lot bigger than his lean, office-dwelling frame. Damon is built like his dad and both of his brothers, and their body type doesn’t allow for much mass. He also has what I call theLandry lips;they’re these big, pouty, pink lips that almost look like they belong on a woman, except they match the rest of his features pretty well. His brother, Taylor, has them too.
My stomach clenches at the thought of Taylor.
That fucker.
I know being at odds with Taylor really hurts Damon, but after what Taylor did, I don’t know that D and I’s friendship would have survived if he’d taken Taylor’s side. I quickly shove those thoughts away, though, because Damondidn’ttake Taylor’s side.
He chose me.
Because of our size difference, it’s easy to engulf Damon in an embrace, which he pretends to hate, but secretly likes. Damon iswaymore particular about his personal boundaries and isn’t overly affectionate.
But that’s okay; he shows affection in other ways.
“Because I makeeverythinglook good,” I joke back, answering his question as I rest my chin on his shoulder. “How doyoumanage to make jeans and a pullover look even stuffier than the suit you had on earlier?”
Damon turns his head to the side, trying to look at me over his shoulder. “Stuffy? I’ll have you know I have a T-shirt on under this,” he says indignantly, pulling up the bottom of the cashmere sweater he’s wearing.
