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I don’t want him to leave without talking to him. This morning was intense, and I swear to God, I’ll have a full-on nervous breakdown if we don’t tie it up with a neat little bow. I take my phone in hand and creep back over to the stairs where I find Drew shifting around, but still asleep.
I sit where I can see him and wait.
And wait.
Eventually I text Elodie to cancel our sex date for tonight. I won’t be able to focus. I feign illness. She’s pissed and asks me for a new date. I throw Tuesday out there since that seems like a long time from now, and she’s satisfied.
I take one break from watching Drew to empty my bladder, but it isn’t until after four that he begins to stir more frequently.
When I’m sure he’s close to waking up, I make my way downstairs and into the kitchen, futzing around, trying to look busy until he finally sits up, yawns, stretches, and looks around.
Inevitably, his gaze lands on me, and I give him a nod.
“What time is it?” he asks through another yawn.
I make a show of checking my watch—similar to the watch he’s wearing in function—and say, “Four-forty-five.”
“Oh. Good.” He blows out a long breath and whips off the blanket.
Rediscovering that there’s not a single stitch of clothing on his body, he covers right back up, struggles to his feet, and heads off to the powder room.
His suit should be back from the cleaners soon, but I don’t really have anything for him to wear, unless he can squeeze that ass into a size medium pair of briefs, which I doubt. His quads alone would rip the seams.
He’s got my dream body—the kind of body I’d always wanted to have before I topped out at 5’11 and discovered I’d inherited my mother’s bird bones. I do what I can, but I’ll never have a lean, ripped physique like that. I wonder if I know anyone who’s looking for beach-body type models for some new line they’re doing?
I wonder if they’d even take my call.
Drew emerges a few minutes later with the blanket wrapping him up like a cloak. “Where are my clothes?”
“I sent them out. They should be here soon.”
“How soon?”
“Before six?”
He sighs, giving me a glare like it’s my fault dry cleaners keep the kind of schedule they do.
“You have anything I could put on while I wait?”
“I don’t think so,” I answer honestly. My clothes—even down to my sweatpants and t-shirts—are custom fit to my body. I refuse to tell him that, though. I’d rather he think I’m being a dick than know I have my undershirts tailored. “Are you hungry? I could call for some food.”
His sigh is deep and long-suffering. “Fine.”
“What do you like?”
“Surprise me.”
My stomach flutters. It’s anxiety. I’ve been having enough of it lately to recognize it. “Can I have a hint?”
“Chinese,” he says.
“Oh. Perfect. There’s a great place…” I trail off and pull up the app on my phone. “What do you want?”
“Beef and broccoli. I don’t need rice.”
I punch his order into the screen and add an order of chicken lo mein for myself.
“Done,” I say, setting the phone back on the counter.
