Page 37 of Rockland

Wearing old torn-up jeans. No shirt, his tattoo swirling around his bicep.

And he has on the glasses.

The specs he only wears at night, when staring at the glare of his computer screen. The frames are black, made of thick plastic. They make him look older than his age. More distinguished. And when he wears them, I get a little rush… down there. He peers over them, stroking that rough beard. His features a mask of concentration.

Aye, Papi!

Apparently, I’ve got a thing for a man in glasses. Maybe it’s the daddy complex in me that I’ve been accused of having. I’ve always loved a no-nonsense man and those frames…

He’s typing away. He hasn’t even noticed me. I’m enjoying the feeling of spying, observing him in all his sexy masculinity without getting caught. I know I should make my presence known. Bid him goodnight. Go up those stairs and lie on my side of our pillow wall.

But I can’t get my feet to move. I lean against the doorframe, nibbling on a few more bites of eye candy.

Why can’t I sleep without him?

I’ve grown accustomed to his scent. It’s perfumed all the bedding, my sheets, the very feathers of my pillows, they all smell of his masculine warmth. It’s that smell your skin gets when you’re lying on the beach, the sun shining down on you, and it’s time to roll over to your stomach.

Though, with my fair skin tone, that’s probably only after two minutes. Rockland on the other hand, when he takes off his shirt to climb into the bed, I can’t help but peek at that browned, sunbaked skin. How those ripped muscles must look when he’s up on his surfboard, riding over those turquoise waves.

Every night, he kisses the top of my head over the wall of protection. He rolls over. He falls asleep almost instantly. His breathing is soft, steady.

And like a total creeper, I watch him sleep. He’s beautiful.

Our days have fallen into a pleasant rhythm. When I wake, he’s already left the room. I shower and dress in privacy. When I come down to the kitchen, breakfast is waiting for me. And he’s standing by the stove, white kitchen towel flung over his shirtless left shoulder. Every day.

We say our goodbyes—never touching. I go to work, he goes off to do whatever it is he does for Bronson when he’s in the Village. When I come home, there’s a hot home-cooked meal waiting for me. When he’d first moved in, the evenings, I’d lounge around in the living room, he the office. But then we took to chatting. I’d brew a pot of decaf coffee and we snuggle down and just… well, hang out. We’ve played Scrabble, watched old movies, sometimes just read quietly, side by side.

We never socialize and I’m relieved he hasn’t suggested it. Something about our quiet nights in together make me feel peaceful, content. And secretly, I’m finding I’m loath to the idea of sharing that quiet time with anyone other than him.

Tonight, after dinner, he’d gone straight to the office. Said he’s working on a deal. Whatever that may mean. I found myself feeling disappointed that we wouldn’t be spending the evening together. I went upstairs, showered, put on my pajamas. Stared at the empty bed.

But somehow, I’ve found myself here. Skulking about the doorframe of the office. Watching him work.

His husky voice suddenly penetrates the quiet. “Can I help you?”

I nearly jump out of my skin. I’ve been lost in my thoughts. I’d no idea he knew I was here. He says, “You’ve been standing there for some time. Do you need something?”

I look down at my slippers. “I… ah… I… I just can’t sleep.”

He peers at me over those glasses. “Bedtime, Tess. You’ve got an early day tomorrow.”

The way he’s looking at me. The tone. My core melts.

And I can’t go up there without him. But I could never, ever tell him this. I can’t let him know how accustomed to his presence I’ve become. How I miss him when he’s not here, how⁠—

He’s tapping his thigh with his palm. He’s taking off his glasses. My nipples are hard, poking the thin fabric of my shirt. “Tess. Go to bed.”

It’s not a request. I know I should turn, go up those stairs. Crawl in my cold, empty bed and let him work.

I don’t.

Instead I say, “I’ll go to bed when I’m good and ready.”

He give me a half-interested glance. The glasses are tossed onto the side table. He’s standing, stretching his arms high above his head. The muscles in his torso tighten and pull with his movement. His jeans are low over his hips, showing the tops of his hipbones and just a touch of the trail of dark hair that leads down to places I’ve not visited since the first night he came back.

It just wouldn’t be appropriate.

Though my yoni highly disagrees.