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She did a quick half-step back towards the stairs, then the bathroom, and then she spun suddenly to dig for something under her pillow. I got a tantalizing look at her ass in a pair of multi-colored polka dot panties as she bent over the edge of the bed. She grabbed for something under her pillow and turned back around with a pair of leggings. She noticed I was staring and bulged her eyes. “Don’t just stare at me!” she said. “Turn around or something.”
I turned around, but I already burned the image into my head. I wondered how much easier this would be if I didn’t find her so confusingly sexy. There was just something about her. She didn’t tick all the boxes I thought I wanted ticked. She was irreverent. Goofy. Unusually prone to sweating. And she couldn’t go five minutes without talking back to me. But she never worshipped the ground I walked on or acted like I was more than just a man. Every breath she took reminded me I was the same old asshole I’d been before all the fame, and I wondered if that was what was helping me get back into the mindset to write.
She reminded me I was flawed. She reminded me constantly, in fact. And flawed men could make mistakes. They could write imperfect books. They were allowed to make mistakes.
I just wondered if I could reap the benefits of that dynamic without wanting to fuck her every time I looked at her. Removing my dick from the equation would certainly simplify things, but I was afraid my dick might actually be more stubborn than Kenzie.
“You can turn around now,” she said.
She’d slipped back into the outfit she had on for our flight yesterday and was digging out new clothes from her suitcase. I watched her pick out a plain dress, a black thong, and a matching bra she tried to discreetly ball up before heading for the bathroom. “I’m locking this, by the way,” she said, looking at the door handle to the bathroom.
“Worried I’ll barge in?”
“After waking me up with your raging hard-on poised over my head last night? A little. Yeah.” She tried to keep a straight face, but only partly succeeded.
I shook my head. “It’s clear you’re a writer because you’re very good at making shit up. We both know that’s not how it happened.”
She flashed a teasing grin. She was finally awake enough to be her usual self, it seemed. “All I know is you were looking at me while I slept and it was hard.”
I refused to take part in this argument, so I turned my back and got out a thin jacket from my bag and slid it on. I heard the shower running a few moments later. I didn’t want to go upstairs and deal with the others, but I unfortunately needed to eat.
I headed upstairs. I was hoping to be early enough to avoid running into anyone, but wasn’t so lucky. The big man named Cooney was already at the stove top cooking several sizzling strips of bacon. I smelled biscuits in the oven and saw a heaping pile of eggs he’d already set aside and covered with a clear plastic lid.
“Good timing,” he said over his shoulder. “Breakfast is almost ready. Want to throw some coffee on the pot for me? I forgot to get that running.”
I considered heading back downstairs and ignoring him, but the food did smell enticing. I also could use some coffee. I went to the cabinets and dug around until I found the necessary ingredients and got it running.
“I’ve seen that look,” Cooney said.
I made a noncommittal sound.
The big man wagged his finger, grinning like I’d just admitted something. “You two. There’s a lot of sexual tension, no?”
I stopped long enough to glare at him. I hoped it’d be a clear enough sign that he should shut up and stop bothering me, but he just smiled.
“Oh yeah,” he said, nodding to himself. “It’s thick and crackling with electricity, isn’t it?”
“I’d rather not have this conversation with a stranger.”
Cooney blew me off with a wave of his hand. “I’m Cooney, you’re Sebastian. We slept in the same house last night. We’re family now.”
“We’re not.” If that were true, I’d have more than one surviving family member. More than a father who didn’t understand his dreams for me weren’t my own.
“You don’t have to talk. Just listen.” Cooney lifted the bacon with tongs, then decided it needed some more time and set it back down in the pan. “I talked to Kenzie last night. I talked to you this morning. I know people. You two are full of sexual energy. You know what happens to sexual energy if you don’t let it out?”
“I’m not—”
“Ah-ah-ah,” Cooney said, waving his tongs at me and clicking them with each syllable like a crab claw. “Listen. You hold all that sexual energy in and it’ll find a way out. I promise you that much. Except it won’t come out in good ways. You’ll be angry with each other. Bicker. Fight. You’ll feel blind.”
