I roll my eyes at myself.Get a grip, Martha.
One thing I’ve learned about living as a woman of my size is that how I think of myself projects onto how others perceive me as well. If I’m confident in my body, that confidence directs others in how they interact with me. Most of the time. There are the rude outliers, but that reflects on them, not me.
My point is, if I don’t want the next five days to be steeped in an air of awkwardness and discomfort, then I need to project that I’m not at all ill at ease. Julien will take the cue that it’s okay to relax, and then we can both, in truth, find some harmony in this situation.
And that’s not going to happen if I wrap myself up like a burrito in a robe, trying to hide or act embarrassed and like everything isn’t hunky-dory. Decision made, I fling back my shoulders and march out of the closet.
Straight into the solid wall of a man’s chest.
15
Excessively warm hands reach out and curl around my waist, keeping me from falling but also branding my skin where each of Julien’s long fingers wrap around the dip in my curves. His whole body is radiating heat that my skin is absorbing and making itself known in the blush I feel rising in my cheeks. It’s feverish, his warmth. Even the scent coming off him makes my insides melt. Spicy, like lemongrass and ginger, with maybe a hint of peppermint.
While a little voice in the back of my brain tells me all of this is because he just got out of the shower and more than likely brushed his teeth as well, I can barely make out the familiar voice of my own common sense because all my other brain cells are being overwhelmed at this moment due to Julien’s nearness.
He takes a step back, and one by one his fingers peel away from the divots above my hips. “Are you all right?”
“What?” Now that he’s not touching me and I’m not breathing him in, encompassed by his proximity, whatever wiring malfunction that just happened in my brain is righting itself. I’m left with slight mortification. So much for projecting a confident demeanor. Kind of hard to do after colliding with someone and then momentarily losing grip on your control.
Hard, but not impossible.
“Sorry about that.” I wave off his concern like he’d had no effect on me whatsoever. “Clumsy me.”
He doesn’t say anything, nor does he make any motion to move away. So far, I’ve kept my gaze pointed neatly at the ground, but I can’t go around memorizing the carpet pattern, especially if we want to move past this awkward stage. So, I force my lips into what I hope is a nonchalant smile.
Look at me, I am unaffected by this unconventional turn of events andyou can be toois what I’m hoping to project. Therefore, I will not take note of the fact this is only the second time seeing Julien in something other than one of his tailored blue suits. Nor that how he wears the red-and-black buffalo plaid pajama pants and fitted black T-shirt he has on reminds me of a model in a Christmas catalog.
His throat bobs as my gaze continues to rise.
Okay, this is not fair. “You wear glasses.” I state the obvious in a breathless tone. I’ve always had a weakness for a man in glasses. You can have Superman. Give me Clark Kent. Julien’s horn-rimmed frames somehow make his blue eyes even bluer. It’s a conspiracy.
And speaking of firsts, this is the first time I’ve ever seen his hair without any type of product in it. The gray strands appear darker in their still-damp state. He’s run a comb through them, but without the discipline of gel, they’re drying in any direction they choose. A few strands fall across his forehead, giving him a boyish sort of charm.
“I usually wear contacts, but...” he says thickly before casting his gaze to the bed.
Right. Wearing contacts to sleep is a no-no. “They look nice,” I say.
He dips his head and touches the frames almost self-consciously. The move has his own gaze traveling downward, and since I’m standing right in front of him, he can’t help buttake me in. His Adam’s apple bobs again right before his jaw clenches and his eyes squeeze shut.
He probably feels obligated to give me a compliment in return because I gave him one first, but making any sort of appreciative comment on my clothes—especially pajamas—or body—especially since more skin than usual is showing—would more than put him over that professional line he promised me in the lobby he wouldn’t cross and well into creepy, inappropriate territory.
Feeling the need to rescue him, I point to the bathroom. “If you’re done in there, I’ll just pop in and get ready for bed.”
“Yes,” he coughs out. “Yes, of course. Be my guest.”
I gather my own toiletries and close the door behind me. Leaning against the sink, I stare at myself in the mirror. I need to get myself under control. I am a thirty-eight-year-old woman. My issues with hormones are closer to perimenopause than puberty, and I need to make sure I act like it.
With that little pep talk—if you can call it that—I turn on the faucet to run cool water and wash my face. An assortment of moisturizers and night creams are applied, including a serum for my hair that will hopefully control the frizziness. I brush my teeth, and then I no longer have an excuse to not open the door and make my way to bed.
I square my shoulders a second time but wait a beat after opening the door to step out. We don’t need a repeat of my face-plant into Julien’s pecs. I shouldn’t have worried, however, because Julien is already under the covers of the bed closest to the door. My dad always takes that side of the bed as well. He says it’s because he wants to be between Mom and any danger in case an intruder makes their way in. I doubt Julien’s reason is the same, but one never knows. He does seem like the chivalrous type.
I pull back the covers of my bed and slide between the coolsheets. The underwire of my bra pokes me as I try to get comfortable, but there’s no way that baby is coming off.
“Good night,” Julien says before clicking off the lamp on his bedside table.
“Good night,” I reply, turning off my own light.
The room is plunged into semi-darkness. Neither of us closed the curtain in front of the glass door leading to the balcony. A three-quarter moon hangs in the sky, the amber glow of its reflection bouncing off the ocean water like yellow diamonds. If I concentrate real hard, I can hear the crash of the waves on the beach and the ebb and flow of the tide. Better than the white noise app on my phone, although a lot fainter.
