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I feel sexy as hell, the way he’s undressing me with his eyes.
“Okay,” I respond, belatedly. Surely he’s noticed how out of breath I am, how long it took me to reply. How intently I’m staring at his chest. He’s watching me the same way, taking in my body. We want each other. I can feel it, taste it…
He leans closer, and my lips part, my eyes dropping to study his mouth. His three-day stubble stands out, dark against his tan jaw, and his mouth parts slightly too, like he’s about to close the last few inches between us…
“Sleep well,” he says. Then he brushes past me up the hallway.
I stand there, frozen, staring after him. Until I hear the distant slam of a door, and realize he’s gone into his own bedroom suite.
What the hell was that? I wonder, gazing down the empty hallway.
I shake my head. Doesn’t matter. He’s giving me a job, and a place to stay for the night to boot. That’s all I need to know for now.
5
Cassius’s strange spare room not only has a crib in it, but also a full wardrobe of spare clothes. There are a few women’s clothes mingled in, and I feel a little guilty when I pull out a spare T-shirt and pajama shorts to wear. But it’s either this or put my work dress back on to deal with babies, and frankly, this seems like the lesser of two evils. I’m Cassius’s girlfriend won’t mind me borrowing this shirt as long as I wash it after. It looks pretty worn-out.
Not going to lie, though, I feel more than a little jealous at discovering these clothes. I slip on the shorts and shirt, wondering who the lucky woman who snagged a guy like Cassius is. She must be hot as hell – probably some towering European model with millionaire parents or something.
Someone the complete opposite of me, sitting here with bags under my eyes and my hair a wild mess, feeding the babies as I blink sleep out of my eyes. Like always, they woke me far earlier than I’d prefer. I love them but damn, how long until they’re old enough to sleep in to a reasonable hour in the mornings?
Once they’re fed and reasonably settled again, I decide that going back to sleep will be impossible. I’m wide awake by now – and thinking way too hard about who this mystery woman of Cassius’s must be.
As I pad barefoot out into the kitchen to start on breakfast, I tell myself it’s unfair to be jealous. After all, I don’t know this girl at all. She’s probably really nice. And cool.
But ugh, life is so unfair sometimes.
I root through the fridge. Yep, no way this guy is single – there’s actually food in here. I fish out some eggs, cheese, mushrooms and green peppers. Omelets are one of my favorite comfort foods, and it’s the least I can do to make Cassius breakfast after he so graciously let me crash here last night. After I missed my bus like an idiot.
Great first impressions all around, Manila, I think bitterly.
I’ve finished the omelets and have moved on to frying some bacon when my spine suddenly starts to tingle. I turn around to find Cassius leaning against the doorway, watching me, his expression unreadable.
So much for telling myself not to be jealous. Fuck that other girl, I think, staring at him wide-eyed for a second. He’s just the perfect amount of sleep-tousled, his hair a wavy mess around his forehead, dressed in sweatpants that sag just far enough down his hips that I can follow his happy trail a little too well – someone does not wear boxers to bed. And his T-shirt is tight as hell, hugging him closely enough that I can make out every line and cut of his muscular body.
I want to be that damn shirt.
“Good morning,” he says, his voice somehow deeper, sexier than I remembered.
I swallow hard. He’s still staring, blatantly letting his eyes roam over me. I clear my throat, searching for something to break the silence. Is he mad I borrowed his girlfriend’s shirt?
“I, uh, I found this in the spare room,” I finally stammer. My voice sounds overloud and awkward in the huge kitchen. “I hope it’s okay with your girlfriend that I borrowed them.”
“They aren’t my girlfriend’s,” he replies flatly.
Well. That’s not exactly helpful. Does that mean he has a girlfriend but these aren’t hers, or…? I shake myself internally. Stop trying to hit on your boss! “Oh. Well, I’ll wash them and bring them back, whoever’s they are…”
“They’re yours now,” he says, then he strides across the kitchen toward the coffee maker, which has just started to bubble faintly.
I step in front of him to block his path. “I’ll get it.”
