He opened the dishwasher and slipped the forks in. We’d missed the first part of the movie, but it didn’t matter for a movie we’d both seen a hundred times.
I resumed my place in the corner, and the sofa pillows sank down as they absorbed his weight, not really in his corner, more in the middle.
“So, Poppy, are you ashamed of what you do? Is that why you don’t tell anyone?”
“No. I’m not ashamed. A woman should never be embarrassed of her body. I can be whatever I want to be. I can do whatever I want to do. I don’t have to live by someone else’s moral code. I live by my moral code. I do what I believe is right.” His eyes widened, and I breathed in deeply, to calm down the rant. “No. I am not ashamed. But it’s my business, and I don’t want everybody to know it. I don’t want to deal with people like your friend Tate and his judgmental bullshit.”
“I hear you.”
But do you? The words were on the tip of my tongue, but I squelched my inner bitch and settled into the pillow.
“Hey, it seems to me you’ve got quite a business going. That’s nothing to knock. Hard to build.”
The bad boss on the screen asked in his annoying way, “If you could do that for me, that’d be great.”
I laughed, because I always laughed at that scene. And I breathed in again, snuggling down on my pillow, happy. Happy because I didn’t have a boss like that. I didn’t have to sit in a cubicle and live a miserable existence. I found my own path. And yeah, it was a journey. My journey. My way.
“Do you think you can slide up? Make room for me beside you? That way we can both lie down?” My eyes must have bulged or something, based on his immediate backtracking. “To watch the movie.”
“You can lay your head down on that end.”
“That’ll put my feet near your head.”
“Put ’em behind my back.” I scoffed at him, as if I was born yesterday. I knew better than to let his hands roam. With a bit of shifting back and forth, we both got comfortable. His body, lying behind mine, generated a comfortable warmth, and I settled in, waiting for the fire scene.
Red wine, fuzzy socks, thick blanket, and the rain pattered on the windows outside. Bliss. Ultimately, the warm candle glow combined with a familiar movie did me in. I blinked open my eyes as sun rays lit the room.
I rolled back and froze. Mr. Hottie slept behind me. His front aligned against my back, only his feet were near my head. His button-down shirt hung on the back of a kitchen chair.
The curves of his bicep indicated he was no stranger to the gym. His bare chest looked damn fine. The blanket draped over his waist, leaving a lean middle exposed. The phrase “washboard abs” came to mind. I’d never seen anything like him, not in person. He shifted. I froze. Satisfied he had settled back into a deep sleep, I escaped. With the stealth of a large ninja, I dropped onto the floor and crawled on hands and knees until I reached the stairs.
The candle had been blown out. The TV turned off. When I fell asleep, he must have made himself at home and then returned to his place on the sofa. Christ on a cracker, Mr. Hottie slept over.
Upstairs, I brushed my teeth, washed my face, then cracked open my laptop and groaned at the long list of messages I needed to work my way through. Most were paid messages. We called that income, I reminded myself. I’d need to respond this morning. Then get a shower, fix this rat’s nest on my head, and create new content.
Brain off to the races, I headed downstairs for coffee.
“You by chance have a toothbrush I can borrow?” He stood on the landing in only his boxers. Damn.
“Poppy?”
“Toothbrush.” I snapped my fingers. “Well, I won’t want it back. But, here, let me get you one from the guest room. Stay down here.” I ran up the stairs, pulling my hair into a top bun as I climbed.
He called up after me, “What have you got up there that you don’t want me to see?”
“Stay!” I repeated, grabbed one of the free toothbrushes from my last dentist visit, and smacked into him on my way out. I thrust the toothbrush against his hard muscle. “Here you go. Guest room and bathroom are that way.” I pointed down the hall. He glanced at the open den area between the two bedrooms. The back wall and most of the room comprised my studio. I could slip out the background as needed when I used my green screen.
My pride hadn’t wanted him to see my inner slob on full display, but I shrugged it off. It wasn’t like I could wave my editing wand and have him un-see the mounds of clothes. I jogged down the stairs, leaving him to explore. It is what it is.
Minutes ticked by as my coffee pot slowly filled with the life-saving dark liquid. I envisioned him nosing through my stuff. But even if he did, it didn’t matter. Mr. Hottie lived in New York and would be long gone soon.
When His Hotness joined me in the kitchen, instead of questioning his dedication to dental hygiene, I simply offered him a mug of steaming joe. He took the coffee from me and leaned against the counter. Those gorgeous eyes rustled up my nerves. I flipped through junk mail on my phone.
We sipped our coffee, silent. My skin tingled as his gaze wandered over me. Maybe I should’ve
