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He guided me to the adjoined room beside the bathroom. An overstuffed futon draped with a blanket and a few throw pillows was positioned along the back wall, and across from it, a large, flat-screen TV was suspended on the wall.
There were a series of wall-length cabinets, a full-length mirror, and hooks holding a scarf and a blue coat. Several ties draped on the farthest hook, which made me wonder how often he slept here.
“I’ve imagined you in here sometimes,” I said, “closing yourself in, settling in comfort after a long day of work when you didn’t want to go home.”
My body sensed his proximity. Taking in the futon and the thought of him sleeping here, the space was filled with sudden intimacy.
I was in his personal space.
Alone with him.
“Yeah, it’s sometimes easier to just stay. Clary handles having my suits cleaned or taken to my house. After pretty stressful days, I camp out, or sometimes, I just kick back on the Xbox.”
“You have an Xbox in here?”
He sauntered toward the cabinet below the TV. Bending, he opened one of the cabinets to display the device and a basket of remotes.
“In here. You want to play?”
My mouth dropped. “You’re a closet gamer.”
I couldn’t equate this attractive, driven businessman kicking back with a controller.
Closing the cupboard again, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and pinned his gaze on me as he walked to me. The air diluted, dizzying my senses the way he did every time he was near. He smelled good. So good.
“I thought you knew everything I had in here.” His low voice tangled through me, twisting my stomach into knots.
I couldn’t take my eyes from him.
“I clean in here, but I’m no snoop. I don’t go through your stuff.”
He stood with me for several moments, making thinking impossible, before he broke the connection and strode to the long cabinet beside the mirror.
I inhaled, attempting to keep my wits. The fact that everything in here smelled like him didn’t help.
“Then you probably don’t know that I have these.”
He pulled the cabinet open to reveal a stack of drawers. “I’m a sweats and T-shirt kind of guy when I come here to do expense reports or other tedious agendas. I promise, they’re clean.”
He removed a perfectly folded pair of black pants and a gray T-shirt from the drawer. His fingers brushed mine as he handed them over. The touch tingled across my skin, severing my spine’s connection to my brain in the process so, once again, all I coulddo was stare.
“Better get out of that dress,” he said.
Heat splashed across my skin. “Shouldn’t you leave first?”
His lips tugged upward. His gaze skimmed to my shoulders and back to my face, hiking up my heart rate.
“I should, shouldn’t I?”
He was an electric shock to my insides. I slipped the stack of clothes—and my hands—from his grasp as casually as I could, trying not to let him know, but the burning of him overrode me all too fast.
I couldn’t remember what we’d been talking about. His proximity charged the air, frying my mental capacities.
Clothes.
Pants.
Right.
