28
Fee
We spend the next twenty minutes sitting side by side, or thighs flush, our breathing seemingly synchronised. Yes, I noticed. At one point, Lu complains of being cold, and instead of putting her to bed because it’s way past her bedtime anyway, Carson pulls out a huge, fluffy throw hidden away in the ottoman part of the sectional.
“Spend many nights curled up on the sofa, do you?”
“It’s the first time it’s been used.” He sends me a quizzical look. “The interior decorator seemed to think it went with the sofa. Something about the authentic vibe and, if I remember correctly, heterogeneous elements.”
“I’m sure she did,” I answer, a little miffed. I can’t seem to help myself.
The past few days have felt like a month of trials and tribulations. On top of Lulu’s school drama, I’ve lost my apartment before even getting to move in, stared down from up on my high horse at Carson’s offer to stay, only to have viewed two more flea pit spaces during lunch today, plus one very clean and modern but totally unsuitable communal apartment after work. I can’t take Lulu to live with a group of strangers.
Then to top it all off, I endured a date with a man I have no interest in because I’d weaved my web of idiocy so tight, I’d tripped over myself.
Given the things I’d said to Carson last night, I shouldn’t have expected him to be here right now. Is it weird that I did? Weirder still to find that I’m relieved?
“He, actually. The interior guy,” he says, moving from quizzical to just plain amused.
I should’ve known he’d take my displeasure as encouragement as his hand slips under the throw, his fingers entwining with mine.
Something else that shouldn’t warm the pit of my stomach, though it does.
“I’m so happy your date was a bust,” he announces happily.
“I didn’t say that.” I vow silently to keep my eyes on Princess Fiona, currently in her ogre form.
“You didn’t need to.” Surprisingly, his answers don’t contain even a hint of smugness.
It was a mistake, allowing myself to sit here. A mistake I’m pretty sure I was asking for. Or at least, my nipples seemed to be asking. Or maybe that’s just now. He smells so good. Too good to be sitting next to, that’s for sure. His cologne is clean and sort of citrusy-smelling, and the heat his body is throwing out is immense. I’ve never known a body to run as hot as his does. It makes me want to lie across him like a cat on a hearth rug.
My date was pleasant, and Leo was perfectly nice. And I might’ve even thought that’s what I wanted, once upon a time. Because nice is good. Safe. Nice is good father material. Nice won’t ever abandon you when you’re pregnant. But it seems I now crave the touch of a different man altogether. A man who annoys me as much as he makes me smile.
My eyes still glued to the TV, I don’t take in a thing as Carson’s thumb swipes over my knuckles back and forth, back then forth again. It’s pleasantly soothing and nothing I’d ever associate with this man. But then he turns my palm and does something to the inside of my wrist that, I swear, feels like the flick of a tongue.
The flick of a tongue between my legs.
“I’ve. I’m—” I twist quite suddenly to face him, finding my hand on his chest. His heart beats slow and steady under my fingertips, and his eyes seem so dark and smoky and full of forbidden things. “Just be a minute,” I finish, almost springing from the sofa and getting tangled in the throw.
“Careful,” he murmurs, pulling on the opposite end, which might unravel the throw from my legs, but it also twists my dress from the waist. As I manoeuvre the knitted fabric back into position, my ovaries give a little pinch. Lulu has nodded off, her arms thrown around Carson, her little face is squashed against his ribs. As he repositions her against a cushion, he smiles down at her with such a look of fondness that it takes my breath away. As he looks up, he shares that smile with me, and I panic.
“N-nature calls!” I stutter, stumbling away. I make it to my bedroom, mainly to prevent myself from saying or doing anything stupid. Anything else stupid.
Nature calls? What, like, caw-caw!
Unzipping my boots, I throw them into the corner before pacing across the rug once or four times. How long does it take a person to pee, hypothetically? And wash their hands? Maybe I’ll do just that. Hands can never be too clean, right? Deciding I’ve been gone sufficiently long enough, I make my way back into the den, resolved to put an end to this evening. To rest my scrambled brain.