Page 19 of The Detour

So yes, it’s well past three in the morning, and like any sane person, I need to stop looking at the door as I sit in my matching pajama set with thoughts running wild about a man I’ll probably never see again.

And that’s probably for the better, seeing as I've most likely done what I’m accused of doing in my novels—make things too good to be true so I ruin reality.

Typical me . . . waiting for something that never comes.

Drowsy and yawning, I rise from the couch and make my way to the bedroom. I startle in surprise when there’s a knock on the door. So much so that I stare at the slab of wood as I blink my eyes and wonder if I’m dreaming or if this is real.

Does it really matter?

I open the door as if I already know it’s going to be him . . . and I’m not wrong. An icy blast of air hits me, but I’m already heating up at the sight of him.

His hair is wet as if he just took a shower and that black V-neck is now a blue one and those snug jeans have been replaced by a darker pair.

But no jacket.

No anything to cover up his broad shoulders and honed muscles. No scarf to hide that rough cut jaw or gorgeous mouth.

“Hi.”

“Hey,” he says as a crooked smile slides onto his lips, and his eyes glance down to where my nipples are no doubt hard as rocks and straining against the thermal material of my pajama top.

There is a suspension of time as sexual tension crackles, and every part of me ignites from the darkening of his eyes when they look back up to meet mine.

“Did you need something?” I ask, trying to act casual when every part of me aches and screams the answer I want to hear.

Me.

You need me.

Now.

“Just wanted to make sure you had everything you needed.” His tongue darts out to wet his lip.

I emit a nervous chuckle as I suddenly realize I should have shaved. Spritzed perfume on my skin. Painted my toenails. Did the “I’m going to have sex” prep on the off chance this would happen.

The very off chance that now doesn’t seem so very off.

Christ.

“Yes. I think. Sure.”

He takes a step inside and closes the door behind him without asking me if I want him to come in.

Of course, I do.

And now that the door is closed, this space suddenly feels so much smaller. The air feels electric. The attraction is undeniable. What will happen next was predestined from the minute he shut the door.

“I wanted to know if you needed any more help.”

“With?”

I stand still as he takes a step closer.

“How to plot the rest of your story.”

“Meaning?”

“In some stories, there is a natural progression of things. In others . . .” He shrugs.