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“You can grab a t-shirt from my dresser. Top drawer.”
“Boxers?”
“Might have a pair in the bottom drawer.”
“Is it laundry day?”
I shoot her a really look.
“Oh.” Her eyes light up. “You go commando.”
“Yeah.”
Her gaze shifts to my crotch. Her pupils dilate. Her cheeks flush. “I, um, maybe sweat pants. Or a parka. It’s freezing in here.”
“Like my soul.”
She laughs. “That was good. You’re improving.”
“You think I can’t make you laugh?”
“No.” She spins on her heels. “I think you choose not to.”
Maybe. I’ve never been a happy-go-lucky guy. I’ve always tried to have a sense of humor about myself. At least about how fucking miserable I am.
But I used to enjoy a lot more shit.
I used to smile at the guys’ stupid jokes, even when I had to keep up that I’m the boss poker face.
I move to the kitchen. Drown the images flitting through my head—Leighton stripping out of that towel, lying on my bed, spreading her legs wide and motioning come here—in fixing dinner.
I combine the chicken and vegetables, add sauce, stir, turn the pan to simmer.
Sesame oil for the finishing touch.
My bedroom door opens. Footsteps move through the hallway, into the kitchen.
Leighton smooths my black Inked Hearts t-shirt. “You’re too fit.”
“Am I?”
“Yeah.” She tugs at the pajama pants she’s wearing. “They’re tight on me.”
“Guys have narrower hips.”
“Still.”
“You gonna tell me something about how you don’t like your hips?” I force myself to stare into her eyes. “That’s ridiculous, Leigh. You know you’re hot.”
“I do?”
“You wearing those tight dresses for your health?”
“It’s hot.”
“Exactly.”
She laughs. “Another joke. I think I might be corrupting you. Tell me you’re thinking dirty thoughts.”
