The Mogul And The Muscle
I glanced down at my bedraggled pajamas. Leaving without changing into something else—or grabbing a change of clothes—had been a stupid thing to do. I wasn’t a wilting flower who could be scared out of her own home by some assface who thought he could fuck with me.
Except tonight, I was. And it was by choice. And maybe that was what made it okay to be standing in damp silk pajamas and sandals that, now that I looked down at my feet, probably weren’t even mine. Inda’s maybe? Or something Luna had left behind?
I was tired, an aching exhaustion that I felt deep in my bones. I’d been holding myself together—all by myself—ever since the hit and run. No, ever since the parking garage. I’d been keeping my fear bottled up, hidden behind a wall of sarcasm and flippancy. I was fine. It hadn’t been a big deal. I could handle things myself.
But I didn’t want to handle things myself. Not tonight. I wanted to take off the mantle of high-powered CEO. Woman in a man’s world. Badass engineer and literal rocket scientist who could do anything. Face anything. Be anything.
If I could be anything, tonight all I wanted was to be held. For someone else to do the heavy lifting.
I looked Jude up and down, doubting he owned a single item of clothing that wouldn’t fit three of me. “Maybe just a robe while they dry?”
“I actually have something that might fit you,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
A doorway near his bed proved to be a small walk-in closet. He disappeared inside and I chewed my lip while I waited. Clothes that fit me? Did he mean women’s clothes? I didn’t like the idea of wearing something one of his exes had left behind.
He came out with a folded set of clothes and handed them to me. “Bathroom’s through there.”
“Thanks.” I took the clothes—they were soft and smelled fresh—and went through the door.
The small bathroom was sparkling clean. One bath towel, folded precisely in half, hung from a towel rack next to a clawfoot tub encircled by a white shower curtain. A mirrored medicine cabinet hung over the vanity and the toilet lid was closed. A single toothbrush sat in a chrome holder designed for two, the second slot empty.
I set the dry clothes on the counter and peeled off my pajamas. The fabric stuck to my skin and a shiver ran down my spine. I shook everything out and hung it up on the shower curtain rod to finish drying. My bra and panties were damp, too, so I took those off and laid them on the edge of the tub.
Jude had brought me a pair of cotton boxer briefs and a faded green t-shirt. The underwear certainly hadn’t belonged to a woman. They were loose on me, so I folded down the waistband once to make them a little more secure.
I picked up the neatly folded shirt and let it fall open. It said USMC in cracked lettering, like it had been worn and washed many times. I slipped it on and pulled it down, smoothing it over my bare skin. It was big on me, but I wasn’t swimming in it. There was no way it would fit Jude.
US Marine Corps. Was this his? Who had he been when he’d worn this?
Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I winced. My hair was flat and stringy. My mascara had held up—even in the rain—so that was something. But overall, I looked like hell.
Well, it wasn’t like Jude hadn’t seen me in all my hot-mess glory already.
I came out to find Jude in dry clothes—a plain white t-shirt and light gray sweats. He looked up from the sink where he was filling a tea kettle with water.
“Hey.” His eyes traced from my head down to my toes, then back again. He cleared his throat. “More comfortable?”
“This is great.” I smoothed the shirt down again. “Is this yours?”
“Yeah, it’s mine.”
“How did it ever fit you?”
One corner of his mouth lifted. “I wasn’t always this big. Eighteen-year-old me sure wasn’t.”
“You’ve had this shirt since you were eighteen?” I asked, jerking my hands away, suddenly afraid I’d damage it.
“Eighteen or nineteen,” he said, and set the tea kettle on the stove. “I don’t really know what I’m doing, it just seemed like offering you tea was the right thing to do.”