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That wasn’t a new thing; though he’d had only two relationships that had been anything close to serious or even monogamous, Duncan was not one to sneak out of bed, even with girls he’d picked up, barely knew their names, and had no intention of seeing again. He’d leave as soon as he could say goodbye, but he always stayed until he could say it. It was a matter of respect.
That was one of the main tenets of the extremely cringe—and also extremely valuable—lecture he’d gotten from his mother on the day he’d gotten his driver’s license. For Mom, that had been the day for the Big Talk about dating, sex, and how women experienced the world.
Dad’s Big Talk on the topic had happened a few years earlier and was more focused on what he could do, could not do, should always do, and should never do with his body, to himself or anyone else. Also extremely cringe and extremely valuable.
The common theme in both talks was respect. Where women and sex were concerned, Duncan had been taught to ask before acting, to be steady, to be responsive and attentive. To be, in a word, respectful.
That advice had worked out great for him thus far. He knew he was a favorite among the club girls, and he’d rarely had a woman who was glad to hear him say goodbye.
And bonus? Women who felt respected were attentive and responsive in return.
Phoebe sure was. Damn, this girl was fiery hot.
His phone buzzed again; the snooze was going off. Okay, he had to get moving.
Trying not to let too much chilly air under the covers, Duncan eased out of Phoebe’s cozy bed. He dislodged a cat he hadn’t known had joined them. There seemed to be cats crawling all over this place; he’d seen at least four different ones—five now, including this black and white tuxedo version, who flicked its tail at him as it jumped down and sauntered out of the room.
Through the open door. He clearly remembered closing that door when he’d come back from the bathroom and they’d settled in to sleep. Well, for round three and then sleep.
Weird. Did the tuxie who’d just left know how to turn doorknobs?
Not a question that deserved his attention at the moment. Fumbling around in the dark room, trying to be as quiet as he could, Duncan hunted up his clothes and got them on. He had to sit on the edge of the bed to get his boots on, and that bit of shift in the mattress woke Phoebe.
She stretched and sighed, rolled to her back, went still, and finally sat up. He was going to get to say goodbye after all.
“Hey.” Her voice was a sleepy husk, and her body a shadow limned by the faintest blue light.
He scooted up toward her on the side of the bed. “Hey. I have to go. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. What time is it?” She looked toward her clock on the bedside table, the source of that blue light, but Duncan thought he was probably blocking the numbers. “It’s about ten to four. You should go back to sleep.”
“I will. Be safe on this trip you’re taking.”
“Thanks. I will.” As safe as he could be, anyway.
“Do you plan to text me? Or call?”
Here was the interesting thing: a week ago, Duncan would have stated, clearly and from his chest, that he wasn’t interested in getting serious with a woman right now. He wanted the whole family package someday: wife, kids, dog, house with a yard, all that. A life like his parents had. Like Kelsey and Dex had. But not right now.
Right now, he was a man in the fullness of his twenties, and he could drape himself in hot, eager women any time he wanted. He liked that life. He liked the variety. He often enjoyed taking two women at a time, sometimes more. He’d even taken part in an actual orgy—an interesting and educational experience, but in the final analysis, too distracting to become a habit.
Orgies or not, he enjoyed the freedom to choose any girl he wanted, as many as he wanted. He had every intention of sucking the marrow out of being single until at least his thirties.
But he liked this girl. She’d burrowed into his brainstem and settled in.
She was beautiful, yes—every inch of her. That long, gold hair, those inquisitive hazel eyes, that pouty, sassy little mouth, the faint sprinkle of freckles across her nose, the way his hands fit just right at the flare of her hips. She might as well have been created for him in a lab. But it wasn’t her looks that he thought of most. He thought of her standing there in the cold, ignoring her own worry so she could calm a starving horse—a horse she’d rescued. He thought of her sitting in his cab, slouched comfortably in the passenger seat, telling him her story without a hint of defensiveness or shame, while he drove her and her horse home. He thought of Vin and Margot and the little family she’d made of castoff people and animals.
What he thought of most was who she was, not how she looked.
She was strong-willed and forthright; none of that blushy coyness a lot of girls their age put on around guys. And Jesus, her story. She was maybe tougher than him. For sure, she’d been tested more than he had.
He liked her a lot. But he didn’t have to ask to know she wouldn’t want something casual and non-exclusive. Her commitment and loyalty were obvious in every corner of her life she’d shown him. If they started something, she’d want to be serious.
Was he ready to give up a life he’d planned to enjoy for several more years?
He didn’t know, and he couldn’t know while he sat on her bed beside her, his head full of the scent of her, and of them.
Did he plan to text her? Or call?
