The room wasn’t overtly feminine, but had a woman’s touch. Like the living room, it was a collection of mismatched furniture. Patterns worked with stripes, oversized paired with petite. The proportions were just right, and a common theme held the space together—in this room it was a pale yellow. A careful hand had put it together and although it wasn’t what I’d pick, it was pleasing and comfortable.
“I like this room.” My voice was quiet. “Your decorator’s got talent.”
“My—?” She looked confused. “I don’t use a decorator. I did it myself.” A shy smile broke on her face. “You like it? I’ve been told it’s too busy.”
“No, it’s nice. It doesn’t look . . . generic. It looks like you.”
Her eyes blinked wide and turned warm. “Thanks. I could say the same of your place. All heavy pieces and sharp lines. Rigid.” Her fingertips glided over the tattoo, following the curved lines. “It’s very you.”
“Should be. I did it.” I took pride in my home, making the space my own.
She laughed as if something amused her.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing lasts forever,” she read. “Except, you know, a permanent tattoo.” Her fingers continued to trace the contours.
“Do I need to give you and my tattoo a moment alone?”
She grinned. “Could you? That’d be great.”
We lapsed into lazy silence, and again I was struck by how natural it felt. Normal, when it was anything but for me. She shivered subtly, so I sat up and yanked her fluffy comforter around us. Talking about decorating, snuggling under the covers . . . who the fuck was I around her? Why did I kind of like this?
“Okay,” she whispered. “I’m sort of thirsty.”
“Me, too. What do you want?”
“There’s a pitcher of some red . . . stuff in the fridge.”
“Red stuff? What is it?”
She made a weird face. Embarrassment, and it was fucking cute. “I don’t want to tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not exactly a sophisticated drink and the little girl comment is going to come out of your mouth.”
I laughed, figuring it out. “Oh, please tell me it’s cherry Kool-Aid.”
“It’s not.” She scowled. “It’s fruit punch Kool-Aid. Don’t judge me.”
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood, giving her a smile. “I told you I wouldn’t, little girl.”
Her exasperated sigh chased after me as I went down the hallway. I yanked on my underwear when I got to the wad of clothes on the floor. Jesus, I’d been locked in a Dom space I’d never reached with anyone else when my clothes came off. More proof that whatever this was with her, it was something . . . unique.
The cupboard was where I expected it to be and I pulled down two glasses, filling them with the pitcher of red stuff from her fridge. I hadn’t had Kool-Aid in at least a decade, and it was as sugary-sweet as I remembered, but nice. It was hard not to think about good times with Conner and my parents.
Thirty-eight goddamn years old, and I was drinking a kid’s drink. Would the Kool-Aid Man break through the wall at any second and be horrified to find an adult standing there in his underwear?
No. The wall didn’t burst open, instead the front door did.
There’d been no knock. A key slid into the lock and that sound was what forced me to turn. As the man stepped inside, opposite emotions flared in me. Relief that it wasn’t Noemi’s father, and annoyance at the other man who seemed likely to have a key to her place. Her ex.
Ross looked like a boy who hadn’t quite finished growing into a man. Probably Noemi’s age or a year older. A wholesome, poster-boy Republican look, with dimples that the good girls went apeshit over. We were miles apart.
When his gaze zeroed in on me, he went as wooden as a tree. The thoughts in his head were loud on his face as he took in my lack of clothes and the tattoo she was fond of.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked.