He does not.
He sleeps injoggerswith no shirt.
And that means I have a full view of his tattoo.
His torso.
And let me tell you—it’s a mighty fine view.
Patty isn’t chiseled like a professional athlete, but he’s broad, with the kind of definition that comes from muscles getting practical, constant use.
He does so much cooking and baking that his forearms could rival Popeye’s.
And from the muscles in his back, I have to assume he goes out into a barn and hits a punching bag every day on his lunch hour.
“What if the pillow wall is to keep you safe from me?” I tease.
His eyes rove down for just a moment before he snaps them back up.
I’m wearing shorts and an oversized sweatshirt with fluffy socks—full-on PJs—but the way he forces himself not to look at me makes it seem like he was ogling me in a bikini.
“I’m willin’ to take my chances,” he says. “But if you can’t control yourself, you should know I prefer to be the little spoon.”
I burst out laughing, looking at him from the other side of the bed.
And the laughter dies on my lips.
Because I’m standing across a bed from the only man who’s ever set my insides on fire.
The only man who’s ever made me want to break my rules.
No distractions.
Is that what he is?
NO.
The thought rips through my head like a scream.
He is so much more than a distraction.
He’s a lifeline.
An anchor.
He gives my notes structure—the steady drumbeat keeping me on pace, the harmony that makes the melody whole.
Patty seems to know that something is going on in my head, as he always does.
The man can read me like sheet music.
Is that what a distraction feels like?
Like feeling seen? Like being more me than I’ve ever been?
“Well,” he says, cutting off the light on his side of the bed and sliding into the sheets, “I’m going to bed. Night, Lou.”
After a pause, I cut the switch on my side and slide in, too.
