So much for my quick nap. That was a full-blown sleep, so deep it was dreamless.
I rub my hand across my face and stretch, assessing the damage. My muscles are a little stiff from lying in one position, but the sting from my knee has lessened by a few degrees.
I glance around, suddenly self-conscious, but Locke’s not here. I drop my phone onto the coffee table and pad quietly through the apartment, simultaneously hungry to discover more but also feeling guilty for snooping. I push past the tiny bathroom with black hexagon tiles arranged on the floor and find the only other door in the place.
“Locke?” I call softly. I rap the back of my knuckles against the wood, but there’s no answer. The door’s slightly ajar, so I push it open further and step inside.
A pile of blankets on the low, modern bed nearly obscures Locke’s form, but his dark hair pops against the starch white of his pillowcase. The glow of a single bedside lamp traces his prominent cheekbones and his plush lips, so perfectly-formed and seductive. His slow, steady breath betrays his own exhaustion, and I smile with no danger of him seeing. He’s asleep, and it feels like another experience we’ve shared, even though we were in separate rooms on different pieces of furniture. Last night got to him, too.
I spin away from him as my pulse climbs in my chest. A few button-down shirts and pants hang in his open closet, with a pile of sweaters stacked on the shelves. The only furniture in the room, other than the bed and table, is a simple wooden desk and a desk chair. A box from a food sensitivity testing company sits on the desk next to Locke’s work computer, which is plugged in but turned off.
I creep forward, and my foot snags on the edge of Locke’s comforter, snatching my balance.
Shit!
I pitch forward and brace myself to hit the floor and land on my ass for the second time today. Instead, I land on his lap.
Locke startles awake, sitting up in bed so quickly the covers drop off his body, revealing his naked chest. Broad, strong shoulders give way to firm pecs and ridged abs, all those interesting muscles cast into contrast by the highlight and shading of his single lamp.
“Greer?”
Busted.
I straighten my arms, my face somewhere around his crotch and the conspicuous bulge under the covers.
Oh my god.
A sharp breath hisses in through my teeth and heat licks through my chest, creeping toward my cheeks. “I’m so sorry,” I blurt out. I yank my gaze from the strong muscles of his chest. “I was, uhh, just checking in.”
Not snooping. Definitely no snooping here.
“I’ll be back in the living room,” I mutter.
I bolt before he can stop me, then perch on the edge of the couch and put my hands on my knees to draw in deep breaths through my nose.
Locke emerges from his bedroom a minute later, clad in a simple, white T-shirt that strains across his chest and a pair of gray joggers that look soft enough to touch. They highlight the powerful muscles of his quads and glutes, flattering his form in a way that makes it hard to look anywhere else.
Locke pauses in the dining area just at the edge of the living room and leans his hip against the kitchen table.
I twist my hands together in my lap. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” I say.
“It’s okay.” He rubs a hand over his chest and shoots me a sheepish grin. “I think we both knocked out there.”
“Yeah.” Don’t be awkward, Greer. Don’t be awkward. I wave at the room. “I like your place. More minimal than your desk at work.”
A grin tugs my lips as I think of the familiar clutter of his desk—the flask that may or may not hold a slug of whiskey for Friday afternoons, the cone of a paper bullhorn with Director emblazoned on the side, the squishable rubber duckie with devil horns.
I tilt my head at him, hoping for an explanation.
“Half the crap on my desk is there from other people.”
“Oh.” I bite back my embarrassment. Other people have bought him gifts. I suddenly feel useless and stupid. What have I done for him?
“I told you,” he continues, “I don’t need stuff.” His voice lowers like a confession. “I’m not here for the things.”
What are you here for? my body begs me to ask. I want to know, but I don’t, because what if I’m not one of those things?
“Me neither,” I whisper back. It’s true, but it feels dangerous to say. Like I’m showing him a slice of my heart.
My phone buzzes from the coffee table and interrupts the thick, silent moment.
I wince and reach for it. Another text from Molly.
I stand and shove the phone in my purse, then start folding the blanket so I have something to do with my hands. “I should go,” I say.
“It’s late, Greer. You can stay until morning if you want.”
Of course I want to.
I shake my head and set the folded blanket on the back of the couch. “My roommate’s looking for me. I told her I’d help her pack for her trip.”
He lifts a dark eyebrow. “She’s going somewhere?”
“Hawaii.” I shrug. “Her family’s from there, and she goes back for a few weeks around Christmas each year.”
“Then you get the place to yourself.”
I nod. “And I plan to make the most of it. I’ll be throwing a no-pants party for one.”
Oh, lord. What the hell is wrong with me?
I’m no longer tired, so I don’t even have that as an excuse. Just my stupid, confused heart and the memory of Locke’s body under mine, my subconscious sabotaging me.
“You’ll have to tell me how it goes.” Is that…amusement…in his eyes? Or arousal?
“I didn’t mean it that way,” I mumble.
“What way, Greer?” Definitely a smirk on his lips. “I was talking about the packing.”
Right. Right.
I slide into my coat and zip
