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My lips curl around my teeth to stifle the laughter on a particularly loud snort. The good news is he’s still clothed. The bad news is there’s still a very large man sleeping like the dead in my bed. What do I do about it?
I clear my throat. Nothing happens. Shuffling into the room, I clear it louder and still he remains asleep. My feet carry me closer, to his side. Like a creepster, I watch him. If he wakes up now, with my face hovering over his like this, it will be probable cause for a restraining order.
Asleep, he looks almost angelic and way too handsome for the safety of the general public. I’m not blind. Even though he’s generally not my type––my type being men who are capable of stitching together more than three words at a time and whose default mood isn’t “surly”––he’s pretty much everyone’s type, classically handsome in the way only models and actors are.
“Grant,” I whisper while petting his shoulder gently, careful not to startle him into punching me in the face. That wouldn’t be good for either one of us. “Grant.”
His eyes blink open and I swear when he sees me his entire face lights up with excitement. It only lasts for a beat, the next instant reverting back to neutral.
“You’re sleeping in my bed.”
He blinks, electric blue eyes intensely searching my face as if looking for a way into my mind. “I wanted to make sure you got home safely,” he murmurs. “I guess I fell asleep.” Then he blushes, embarrassment staining his cheeks. It’s kind of cute.
Rein it in, Amanda. That’s a no-ride zone.
“Did you have a good time?”
“Yeah, it was a nice.”
His forehead furrows, his mood darkens. “Are you going to go out with him again?” he demands. Because it’s definitely not a question and his tone is way sharper than it needs to be.
Feeling the need to defend myself, I lift my hand off his shoulder and cross my arms. “I don’t see how it’s any of your concern.”
He sits up, throwing his legs over the side, and runs his palms over his face. “You like that tool? That dude-bro is your type?”
He cannot be serious. My eyebrows hover somewhere near the top of my hairline. “You’re calling me out?” I say out loud to be sure where we stand. “Are you kidding?”
He tips up his chin.
As far as I’m concerned, that’s license to charge full steam ahead. “You have some nerve. What about the neck warmers, Grant? What about honey?” I’m almost lightheaded from the adrenaline rush.
His face twists. “Who?”
“Those chicks wrapped around your neck at the restaurant. And what about honey?? I heard you on the phone. You speak to that poor girl like she’s your girlfriend! And frankly I’m really disappointed in you. I did not peg you for a player but holy hell was I wrong.”
He keeps blinking, watching me with the same expression one usually reserves for aliens, three-headed freaks, or watching the news these days. Maybe I overdid it a bit. I’m about to apologize when he starts to chuckle. A minute later it turns into full-blown laughter, his shoulders shaking from the effort to contain it. “When did you hear me talking to this poor girl?” he croaks.
“A few weeks ago on the phone, when you destroyed my morning meditation with your loud voice.”
“Jessica,” he supplies with a nod.
“Well, well. Honey has a name. Does poor Jessica know you’re a pussy hound?”
He bites down on his lip, trying so hard not to laugh I see tears in his eyes. “Jessica is seven years old. That’s not the kind of thing I discuss with kids.”
“Seven?”
Uhhh...
“She’s recovering from non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. I met her through the team’s pediatric cancer charity.”
Oh shit.
“The pink glasses” ––he motions to his eyes with his index finger, tears streaming down his cheeks––“are hers. She sent them to me when she heard I was going into surgery.”
I am mortified.
He loses the battle to hold back the laughter and falls back onto my bed, howling.
“This isn’t funny, dammit,” I say, though it holds no water as I’m smiling from ear to ear. This man’s laughter is undeniably infectious.
“Pussy hound…” he chokes out, and laughs and laughs, and as he’s laughing, something similar to relief spreads through me. I dare not examine what this means.
He sits back up and wipes the tears away with the heel of his hand. Then he stands. And when he stands, he stands way too close for comfort––my comfort that is. Smile lingering, humor making his eyes sparkle. He’s drop-dead gorgeous when he isn’t impersonating the Grim Reaper, radiating the kind of razzle-dazzle that makes people want to bask in his glittery light, roll around and smoother themselves with it.
And he smells good. Man, does he smell good. No coconuts this time. Bergamot and something spicy. That scent is crack to my sex drive. The one that has been non-existent until this man came into my life wearing nothing but heart-shaped kiddie sunglasses.
