Page 56

Fortunately for me—the events of last night aside, which I’m attributing to a temporary bout of insanity—I’m much more in control of my faculties these days than I was when we dated.

Or maybe not.

When I walk out of my room and start toward the office, I look out over the pool area. The sight waiting for me is something that eighteen-year-old Josie would have turned into a poster, framed and hung up in her bedroom, right next to the one of Sly washing his car.

He might not be covered in soapy water, but he’s just as easy to look at.

My legs take on a mind of their own, and I start walking toward the pool instead of the office and Sisi’s apartment. It’s like I’m being pulled by a magnet to the shirtless specimen that’s dragging the cover across the pool and securing it to the patio. I stop at the patio table, set my phone down, and prop myself up with one hand. Unlike yesterday when he was washing his car, we’re the only two around, and he hasn’t noticed me yet.

I shamelessly take in the delicious eyeful that is my ex. There are his veiny biceps and corded forearms that I definitely did not wake up thinking about, which flex under his swirls of ink when he stretches the pool cover tight to one of the anchors in the patio. Then there are those broad shoulders and muscular chest. If things had worked out differently, I could only imagine what it would feel like to rest my head against and soak up his warmth. My eyes drift lower, continuing their journey following the trail of sweat dripping down his abs into the waistband of his jeans.

Those jeans… that’s where my eyes choose to land.

I don’t even care that he’s closing the pool for the season because he finally changed out of his gray sweats and high-top sneakers into lace-up work boots and well-worn denim that complete the sexy tattooed handyman look. While the dick print might be less satisfying, the way his jeans mold to his sculpted ass is more than a consolation prize.

Then again, I don’t need to see the outline of his cock to remember what it’s like because I can still practically feel him after how rough he was last⁠—

“You know, I hear if you take a picture, it’ll last longer.” Sly’s deep voice cuts through the crisp evening air.

My eyes snap up to find his piercing blue ones fixed on me with a smug grin plastered on his face.

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. My lips press together into a line because I can’t form a sentence with him standing in front of me looking this good. I might have been rendered almost speechless earlier when I saw my old neighbors. Unlike the Steins, my situation with Sly is different.

I like looking at him.

I like touching him.

I also like it when he touches me.

It’s everything before and after that I’m still not so sure about.

He kneels and secures the last strap of the pool cover and laughs to himself. “You’re not at a loss for words very often.”

“Ha. Ha.” I roll my eyes at him.

“Come on, I thought it was funny. Didn’t realize I could fuck you speechless,” he rasps, getting up and stepping over to the patio table. I notice his bag of tools and his shirt.

I hold up my hand and extend a middle finger. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He chuckles but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he just grabs a towel from the table and wipes a bead of sweat from his brow before moving onto his neck and shoulders. My eyes can’t decide where to look because he’s a blur of muscles. Being this close to him, all I want to do is reach out and touch him, which I should definitely not do.

“Do you ever wear a shirt around here?” I ask, playfully shoving him in the chest, which I immediately regret. I guess my subconscious is winning out today because I do touch him even though I literally just told myself I shouldn’t. Just like my stupid legs, my hand leaves the messages my brain is sending it on ‘Read’.

Instead of pulling back, my fingers splay over his sternum and through the curls of his dark chest hair. My hand stays there long enough to feel the heat of his skin and the steady beat of his heart. The way my pussy tightens tells me that at least some part of my body is responding to my senses.

He looks down at my lingering hand and the corner of his lips curl into a grin. My hand finally gets the message, and I quickly pull it away.

He huffs a laugh before swallowing. Maybe I’m imagining things, but when he looks back at me, I swear I see an inkling of doubt in his eyes when they soften. “Anyway, I was wondering.” He pauses, and his shoulder rises and falls in a one-sided shrug. “Do you want to talk, or something?”

My head rears back in confusion because that is not what I expected him to say. I cock my head and fold my arms under my chest, noting the way his eyes track the motion and drop for a second.

“Talk? Talk about what, last night? Because no, I don’t want to talk about that. It was⁠—”

“Nothing, I know. You were very clear that it meant nothing. You don’t have to remind me.”

“Then what do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know.” He turns up a palm in question. “Catch up?”