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The back of the love seat was so tall that even though the man was sitting on it, it still towered over the top of his head.
God, I loved that seat.
I’d bet my life that it was super comfortable, too.
And soft.
The man shifted, bending to place his beer on the floor before getting rid of his socks and his shirt.
He lifted a remote from the floor that was next to his beer, and then pointed it right at the camera.
Or, likely, a television that was underneath the camera.
I started to squirm in my seat as I saw him reach forward and pop the button of his jeans.
But not because he was about to get started on anything—at least that wasn’t what it appeared—but because he wanted to be comfortable.
There must’ve been a knock at the door, because he looked at something over his shoulder, and I could see a frown on the side of his face.
Getting up, he walked around the back of the couch, and just over his head, I could see him opening his front door.
The boho dress girl appeared in the doorway, a smile on her face.
The man didn’t look happy to see her.
He also didn’t look considerably excited when the woman threw herself into his arms and kissed him.
I swallowed hard, thinking this was about to get crazy, because I had the distinct impression that this man really didn’t have any idea that he was being recorded.
I mean, if I knew that I was being recorded, I would look at the camera, at least casually. Then I’d casually look away. The man’s eyes didn’t once stray above where he was watching the television. Nor did he casually turn back to look over his shoulder.
Nope. He was solely focused.
On the screen, the man’s head tilted, his sandy brown hair falling to one side, partially covering his face, making it to where I couldn’t see his expression.
The woman, though? Her chest was thrust out as if she was anticipating his reaction to whatever she was saying. And she was dragging her hand lazily along the length of her lace bra that was just barely exposed by her dress.
She bit her lip, and I could tell that she expected the man to take her up on whatever she’d offered him.
He shook his head, his shoulders tensing, then jerked his chin in such a way that the hair moved out of the way, once again revealing his face.
The woman’s face went from anticipatory to pissed in the blink of an eye. She crossed her arms over her chest, said something to make him shake his head, and then she left.
It wasn’t until he closed the door and walked back that I realized that there was no sound.
Like none.
Why wasn’t there sound?
I think I would’ve liked hearing his voice.
I would’ve…
“Hey there, Kitty Cat.”
I felt my stomach sour when Harlow’s boyfriend walked into the room, his eyes solely on me. I slammed the computer closed, not wanting him to see what I was watching. Nor did I want him to have something to talk to me about. The more I gave him, the more he took.
See, here’s the thing. I didn’t, under any circumstances, like Harlow’s boyfriend. He was brash, oily, and he made me feel like a lowly piece of trash when he settled his gaze on me.
I hated him. I hated that Harlow was with him. And mostly I hated that I couldn’t avoid him because he was Harlow’s man, and they were semi-living together.
“‘Sup,” I murmured, hoping that if I didn’t engage, didn’t look at him or talk to him any more than necessary, he wouldn’t hang around.
Sadly, that was not something that ever happened when it came to Trent Thames.
Trent Thames was tall, very good-looking, wealthy, and let everyone know that he does—and is good—at CrossFit.
The sad thing was, he was probably really good at CrossFit. Hell, he’d inspired Harlow to become healthier and to live a fitter life. So there was some good that came out of him being with her, I guess.
But there was also the hard truth of him being a slime ball.
He could be good-looking all he wanted, but when it came to his personality, I didn’t think there was a woman alive that would find him attractive.
The thing was, he wasn’t that way with Harlow.
He was actually a completely different person, and it was weird to see.
That was why I’d never brought it up to my best friend. Why, despite him grossing me out and giving me the heebie-jeebies whenever he was around, I allowed him to be with my best friend.
Trent was tall, six-foot, which was about seven inches over my five-foot-five inches. And boy, did he use that height advantage when Harlow wasn’t around.
“How was your day?” he asked, setting his shaker cup, his ever-present goddamn shaker cup, down onto the counter before giving me his full attention.
