Page 41 of Elevator Pitch

Slowly releasing him, I gently push his arm off me and set it on him, then attempt to slip from the bed. The sudden rustling of the sheets and shift in my position has Ross’s arm locking around me again, keeping me in place.

“Where you going?” he groggily mumbles.

“Bathroom.” I chuckle softly, having been caught trying to escape our little nest. If only that nest was more of a love one than a just-friends one.

I’d heard what he didn’t say last night. How his relationship with Chandler was sex, and probably good sex at that. I miss sex. How pathetic was I that I might even accept bad sex at this point? Then I remind myself I’m not interested in settling for less than I deserve. I’d done that when I took Cameron back after his affair. I’d settled.

Ross gives me a second squeeze, then loosens his arm so I can slip from the bed. Entering the toilet closet, which is a weird concept to me, I do my business, exit the small space and find Ross beside the double vanity brushing his teeth, wearing only his boxer briefs. The outline of his morning wood is prominent, and Ross doesn’t seem the least bit shy about his condition. He isn’t exactly flaunting it, but he isn’t protecting that thick wedge either.

With my cheeks heated, I quickly glance away from him and wash my hands, then reach for my own toothbrush. Our eyes make contact in the reflection of the mirror.

“Would you like coffee this morning?” I don’t want him to feel like he needs to rush out of my place. I also don’t want him to feel like he needs to linger. I don’t know what I want him to feel, and maybe that’s more a reflection on me because I’m a bit of an emotional mess this morning.

The idea he had sex with Chandler shouldn’t make me envious. She was his girlfriend. He’d been married. He’d had sex with other women in between, but maybe the mind scramble was that he wasn’t having sex with me.

Or maybe it was simply that Chandler is beautiful, and I don’t compare.

Glancing at myself, I take a long look at my face in the mirror. There are signs being mid-forties is having an effect. Some wrinkles here and there. Frown lines around my lips. A deep crease across my neck. I once read you can tell the age of a woman by looking at her neck, not her face. Mindlessly, I cup mine and smooth down the skin, watching it retract back into place.

“You’re beautiful,” Ross says, gaze meeting mine through the mirror again.

My face flames, the pink evident in the reflection. An argument is on the tip of my tongue, but Ross continues.

“Every freckle. Every wrinkle. Every scar is a testament to the life you’ve lived. Getting older is a privilege, remember?” He winks at me, our connection still through the reflective glass. “And I think who you are is pretty spectacular.”

Dropping the connection of our gazes in the mirror, I fight a smile.

Quietly, he says, “I should probably get going.”

“Of course.” I exit the ensuite bathroom and make the bed while Ross finishes up in the bathroom, stepping out a few minutes later dressed in his clothes from yesterday evening.

Maybe he should bring a bag with him? A change of clothes? Should I give him a dresser drawer in this temporary place?

Dismissing all those thoughts, I’m hit with the overwhelming realization that I have less than two weeks remaining in Arizona and no manuscript.

“Walk me out?” Ross asks, surprising me.

I nod before following him to my front door. While I stand near the wall to the left of the entrance, leaning my back against it, Ross puts on his shoes. I hadn’t noticed last night that he wore men’s flip flops, his toes on display. For some reason, I giggle.

“What’s so funny?” He’s standing to his full height and steps closer to me, caging me in a bit against this narrow wall space.

“Your feet. I didn’t expect you to wear flip flops.”

“Are you opposed to feet, or do you have a foot fetish? Like that two-men thing?”

“Oh. My God.” I groan. “How do you compare a two-men thing to bare toes. And will you let the polyamorous thing go?”

He chuckles, knowing he’s riled me up.

Suddenly, his arm extends, his hand on the wall beside my head. “Just don’t like the idea of men sharing you.”

“No one’s sharing me.” My voice lowers, dropping to a lusty cadence. Would he share himself with me? Instantly, I shake the thought and clear my throat. “Anyway, feeling lucky again today?”

His eyes dance with mischief, maybe forming his own interpretation of my question.

“No smacking my ass this morning?” He guffaws.

A strangled laugh catches in my throat. “Yeah, I don’t know where that came from.”