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I’ve always wanted to live right on the water. Someplace fresh, clean, salty. I’ve never even been to the ocean so have no idea if you can feel the salty air or smell it, but I like to imagine that you can, and I get a certain feeling as I try to get lost in the story.
But I don’t finish writing the story, because despite my best efforts, it doesn’t seem real, doesn’t seem possible. I feel the sea air, I feel the warmth of the location, but the words, words about me and Josh having our happy ending, they just won’t flow.
Maybe because they’re not supposed to. He’s not my happy ending. My happy ending might not be tied to a man, though. Maybe my happy ending will be tied to becoming published. To doing something wonderful. To some day adopting a bunch of orphans and being a great mom without even having a husband.
I resist the urge to work on that other story, the smutty Austin one, and instead lose myself in television, trying to ignore the noises of a happy family outside this door bonding. Children making happy kid noises. A tantrum of some sort from the baby, though I hear Braeden defend himself for something to do with that tantrum, and the sound of Austin’s deep voice that seems like it calms whatever that situation is. I envision him holding that baby, calming her down, and then I stare into space and try to think about something else. Or nothing. And it takes me a long, long time to finally fall asleep.
Until I wake up abruptly at five o’clock Monday morning, remembering I need to make Austin’s lunch for work.
***
I stumble clumsily to use the bathroom, and then hurry into the pitch-dark kitchen. Shoot. What the heck am I going to make him?
The bread is all gone. There was half a loaf on Saturday. I’ve got no wraps. Will he balk at leftover Chinese food? There’s a lot of it in the fridge.
“Shit,” I whisper, staring into the fridge. And then I turn the light on so I can look through the cupboard for a container to pack some leftovers into.
And a head pops up from the couch.
I gasp, part startled but mostly horrified.
Oh darn. I totally forgot he was sleeping on the couch.
What a stupid dummy I am.
He sits up and sifts his fingers through his hair.
“God, I’m sorry. I wanted to make you lunch for work. I completely forgot you were sleeping out here. Sorry!”
“I’ll order lunch in today, forget about it.”
“Shit. Sorry.”
“Go back to bed, Jada,” he says, standing up. He stretches and makes a loud growling stretching man-sound and it makes my nipples go hard.
He’s shirtless.
Oh my fucking God.
His eyes rove over me as he passes me on his way to the bathroom.
I feel naked, for some reason.
“Uh, that’s my bathroom,” I say as he opens the door down the hall.
He looks over his shoulder at me with challenge. But I think I catch something playful in his gaze.
I smirk, hoping it shows that I’m joking.
I’m feeling relieved for not getting ripped a new butthole because I forgot about his lunch and woke him up.
“I put my work clothes in the laundry room last night. You want me to skip my shower or you want me to wake my sister and the kids to take one?”
“I suppose you can use my bathroom,” I say, smiling. “I’ll consider it the penalty for waking you up.”
“Gee, thanks.” He rolls his eyes. “Though a penalty system could be a good idea. What do you owe me for the food poisoning?”
“What do you owe me for walking in on me on the toilet?” I return.
“What do you owe me for letting you work for me even though you showed no signs of being qualified?”
I shrug. “There was your brother’s ringing endorsement. Good enough?”
“Not even close. Fajitas for lunch tomorrow would be a good start,” he says.
I bite my lip and blush. “You like my fajitas?”
“Yeah. I also like your seafood pasta; it just didn’t like me.”
My shoulders jiggle with my silent laughter. “It didn’t like me much, either.”
“So, is it okay if I use your shower?” he asks, smiling.
He has a great smile. A really great smile.
“I mean, yeah, you probably really need that shower.” I plug my nose.
He snickers. “Yeah, well, you out here without a bra on, I’ve gotta make it a cold one.”
My mouth drops and I cover my chest with my arms. “That could be classed as sexual harassment, Mr. Carmichael!”
“You’re the one harassing my eyes,” he teases, closing his eyes and then opening one cheekily. “And Mr. Carmichael is my father.”
“Well, I ain’t calling you Daddy, that’s for sure,” I throw in.
He smiles. “No? Too bad.” He winks and disappears into the bathroom.
