So why do I have this itch to see Santiago again?
Possibly because I’ve been in love with him forever, but I’d rather not dwell on that right now. That’s a can of worms for another day.
For now, I’ll do what he said. I’ll make myself at home.
I don't think he'd appreciate me reorganizing his kitchen cabinets, but everything else feels fair game.
Standing from the bed, I drape the silk sheet around myself like a towel. I pad across the cold hardwood floor and peek inside the first door a few feet away from me.
Shelves of cowboy hats, hangers filled with flannel shirts and thick coats, and drawers full of denim.
Dropping the sheet, I slide my arms into thick wool sleeves and button from the top down. The shirt hangs nearly to my knees, smelling faintly of cedar, laundry detergent, and whatever cologne Santiago wears. Warm. Earthy. Comforting.
I wander into the hallway.
Last night, I hadn't noticed much beyond Santiago himself.
Today, I finally take it in.
The entire house feels like him.
Exposed timber beams stretch across the ceiling. Stone surrounds the massive fireplace downstairs, and every piece of furniture looks sturdy enough to survive another hundred Wyoming winters. Leather. Worn wood. Iron fixtures. Family photographs tucked onto bookshelves beside old branding irons and framed rodeo buckles.
I meander back into his bedroom and find the bathroom.
I swear I can hear angels singing.
It’shuge.
Much like his…Okay, maybe the multiple orgasms didn’t satisfy me last night. Or maybe Santiago’s dick has turned me into a randy succubus.
I wander across the black slate tile, past the reclaimed-wood double vanity and the free-standing deep tub big enough for two people. The countertop is spotless. Every towel is folded with military precision. His toothbrush sits beside a bottle of beard oil and the world's largest bottle of ibuprofen.
The man is either incredibly organized or has the mentality of a child.
Opening the medicine cabinet, I search for absolutely nothing in particular.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
Hidden behind a bottle of sunscreen sits a charcoal face mask. I stare at it, then the empty bathroom, then back at the mask.
Naturally, I slather it all over my face.
If I’m making myself at home, I might as well commit.
I spend the next twenty minutes snooping without actually snooping.
I inspect every beard product he owns.
Judge his cologne choices.
Open exactly one drawer, then immediately shut it, because that crosses a line.
By the time I’m done, the face mask has dried so tight I can barely move my mouth. Looking around the bedroom, I spot the television mounted across from the bed.
Perfect.
I climb back beneath the comforter, prop every pillow behind my back, and grab the remote. One episode of a home renovation show turns into two.
