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He cocked a brow. “That couch is made out of leather. It’s a dream to sleep on. Before I bought my bed, I slept on it like a baby for a week.”
“Good to know. The question stands. Typical protocol for guests is to allow them to sleep in a bed, with a comforter and pillows.” She shivered and gripped her shoulders. “Especially when it’s like ten degrees in this icebox.”
“Twenty,” he replied with a twist of his lips that disappeared when he pushed past her.
“I’m serious, Chase. I want a real bed,” she muttered, gazing hard at his retreating back.
He didn’t give two craps what she wanted. That had been clear when he’d made his proclamation about it being too late to drive upstate to Yardley, their hometown—well, her home, since obviously Chase had become a city dweller. Kyle, her ride, had left hours ago—he wouldn’t risk being out late and missing church—and Chase wasn’t in the mood to do the honors himself.
Not that she blamed him. He’d been at the cop shop for over two hours, and he’d been questioned and requestioned until he’d been reduced to one-word answers. Eventually she’d given in and turned on the charm at stun level to get them out of there, and the officer had finally relented. He’d snagged a few other supposed perps from the club anyway, so he wouldn’t end the night empty-handed.
Maybe she should stop fighting with Chase and let him go to bed. She’d gotten him in trouble at his job and almost arrested in one night, so she probably deserved the sofa.
And it had looked buttery soft.
Sighing, she trudged back into the living room and gasped aloud at the sight of Chase carefully making up her couch. Somewhere he’d unearthed a white comforter with big geometric circles on it and even from a few feet away, she could smell the comforting scent of detergent. Something lemony and airy that made her want to purr.
Oh jeez, a guy good at laundry was dangerous. If he whipped out dryer sheets, she’d be toast.
“It’s still warm,” he said gruffly, jerking a hand at the comforter. She’d never expected to find a happy homemaker in the guise of a sex god with hands big enough to turn cars into scrap metal. “I washed and dried it earlier to throw on one of the guest beds and I never got it out before I went to the club. So it’s all yours.”
After one more fluff of her brand new pillow, he turned to leave.
“Thank you. I appreciate it.” And she so would, the minute he left. Well, after she took a blisteringly hot shower first. “Chase, wait.”
He stopped on the threshold, not moving. Not facing her either.
“Can I use your shower?”
“Sure.” The word sounded strangled. “The bathroom’s at the end of the hall, opposite the master bedroom. Fresh towels are in the cabinet above the toilet.”
Yeah, she could feel her bikini panties already untying themselves at her hips. In her experience, most single males were stinky and lazy, practically incapable of throwing dirty things in a machine made for that purpose. A man this tidy and capable might as well put a “take me now” sign on his very impressive groin.
The groin that, yes, she might’ve gotten a quickie handful of on the night they’d kissed. Until she’d released him for the one thing that mattered even more than getting a look at his probably amazing package.
A chance to seize her dreams.
Dreams that were now dashed on the rocks, at least temporarily. She was down. Not out. There were other clubs. Other fans. Other nights that wouldn’t end with cuffs and awkward silences and sexual tension thick enough she could choke on it.
The last part wasn’t so bad, she supposed.
“Uh, thanks,” she managed through the lump in her throat. He’d gotten halfway down the hall when she spoke again. “Chase?”
Again he stopped. Waited.
“I’m sorry about tonight.” She took a step forward. Her peach-polished nails looked ragged and flaky, partly because she’d bitten them to the quick at the police station. Nail biting was such a disgusting habit, and she’d kicked it a long time ago.
Lo and behold, being sent to the neon-fronted pokey in Manhattan—leave it to her to be apprehended by a city cop rather than one from the boroughs—had brought the habit out of dormancy. Who’d’ve thunk it?
“It’s all right.” He started to say more, then shook his head. “Let’s get some sleep, okay? We’ll figure stuff out in the morning.”
She wanted to say more. Of course she did. She wasn’t a known motor mouth for nothing. But he turned into his bedroom and shut the door with a sense of finality she didn’t miss.
Blowing out a breath, she tugged down the zipper of her jacket. Seeing her torn blouse brought stinging tears to her eyes. She’d pulled too hard, and now she’d ruined it. She couldn’t bear to throw it away. She’d stolen the shirt from her mom’s closet years ago, and if she closed her eyes and pressed her face into the fabric, she swore she could still smell her mom’s comforting rosewater scent. She only saw her mom a few times a year now. In tatters or not, she refused to toss her blouse out like a piece of trash.
She shed her jacket then peeled off her shirt, confident that she could strip down to nothing and not be disturbed. Unless she was mistaken, a bomb could go off in that living room and Chase wouldn’t stalk out of his man cave.
Once she was naked and clutching her pile of clothes, she snuck a glance down the hall. All clear. She bit her lip and dumped her clothes on the glass-and-chrome coffee table between the couch and the pair of leather armchairs across from it. After another furtive look in the direction of the hallway, she grabbed her enormous bag and rooted through it for the surefire stage fright cure she carried with her to shows. The silver flask felt cool to the touch, and she knew it was blissfully full since she hadn’t even taken her customary three sips before going on stage. She’d been feeling it, all smiles and full of energy.
