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Austin rinses his dishes and puts them in the dishwasher. His dishes come home in his lunch bag washed. The other night he must have made a late-night sandwich because there were extra things in the dishwasher. There were no crumbs on the counter, though. He doesn’t leave dishes out, he uses coasters for his glasses, he even makes his own bed, hangs up his wet towels, and throws his laundry into the hampers.
He’s a rare breed of single hot male, that’s for sure.
Like it was with Aiden, it’s the same with Austin though – doing their laundry feels intimate. Folding the boxer briefs. Rolling socks together. Putting things in their closets or the dresser drawers.
But there’s something peculiar going on with me that has me feeling guilty. I’m just relieved that Austin clearly isn’t using a nanny cam in this condo, because if he were, I’d surely be fired or taken in for psychiatric evaluation. Because I have this habit with Austin’s laundry that I didn’t have with Aiden’s.
Smelling Austin’s shirts before I wash them.
I’ve done his laundry twice now and didn’t do it the first time, but when I tackled his laundry Wednesday morning, I had this odd urge to smell every shirt before I put it in the washing machine. I smelled each one by inhaling deep, by even rubbing one of the t-shirts over my cheek, before dropping it in the machine.
Okay, so I’m a little perverted and creepy – writing stories about a fictional Austin (based on the real one) who wants me (despite the grouchiness) and sniffing his shirts. I probably need to stop this. All of this.
But yeah, clearly I’m a perv.
A perv who has had hardly any inspiration to write any of the stories I’ve started except for one. That one.
***
Thursday, I almost successfully avoid seeing him. I’m typing up my email with my expenses for the week at the island when I hear the door open. Shit. He’s home early.
“Hey,” he greets.
“Oh. Hi.”
“What’s for dinner?” he asks, hanging his jacket and lunch bag up.
“Pot roast,” I say.
He smiles and wrings his hands. “Ooh. It’s ready?”
“Yeah, actually. You’re early so it’s probably not even cooled down yet. You want it now?”
“I’m starved. Can you make me a roast beef sandwich for lunch tomorrow?”
“I already did,” I say.
He smiles brightly. “Mustard?”
“Oh, I made it with gravy and cheese. Just a bit of gravy. Not enough to make the bread soggy. I can add mustard.”
I head to the fridge.
“It’s okay. I’ll add mustard to it at the office. Gravy and cheese sounds good. You’re a great cook, Jada.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
A compliment. Wow.
Weird.
I pull out the mustard and reach into the drawer for the package of disposable condiment cups with lids I bought to use in his lunches. I fill one with mustard and pop the lid on and then put it into his lunch bag.
“You probably don’t need to keep giving me Snickers protein bars, by the way. I have four of them in my desk now.”
“Oh. At least you won’t have any chance of getting hangry,” I quip.
He laughs.
My face heats as I try not to react.
I pull his dinner out of the fridge and keep my eyes downcast.
Him laughing has done funny things to my belly and I don’t want him to know that.
“Still warm,” I say and set it on a placemat by the stool I know he prefers. I grab him some cutlery and a napkin. “I only put it in the fridge five minutes ago.”
He rolls the sleeves of his soft-looking grey button-down shirt to his elbows, then washes his hands and gets a beer from the fridge.
I quickly gather up my laptop and phone and head toward my room.
“You eat already?” he calls out.
“I have, yeah.”
“Oh.” He looks disappointed. “Okay. Thanks, Jada. We got any horseradish?”
“Yeah. I bought some.” I head back his way.
“I’ll get it. Where is it?”
“It’s in the door of the fridge.”
“Cool,” he says.
I go into my room and shut the door. I’m out of breath. My heart is racing. And part of the reason why is him asking if ‘we’ have horseradish.
We.
I shake it off and then I open my laptop and an hour later, I’ve written eighteen hundred more words. But not for my misunderstanding romance that was inspired by the couple in the park. Nope… I write eighteen hundred words for my Austin smut. If I could take my Austin word count and apply it to my other story, I’d be nearly done writing my first novel.
And it’s not a smutty half-chapter I write, either. It’s a sweet one.
I am such a moron. A perverted shirt-sniffing, smut-writing moron.
22
Austin
I get home early for the second day in a row. It’s just past four o’clock and I had a case of “fuck it” at the office and decided to bring my laptop home to work and get some peace and quiet to help me finish digging through this audit. It’s Friday and I know Sienna got arrested today, so that’s also got my mind off my game.
