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Everett
There’s a thump, and a loud clatter over by the kitchen. “Oops,” Josie says, her voice drifting through the darkened barn.
I chew on the inside of my cheek, staring up at the shadowed ceiling above the sofa.
Better not to say anything. Better to let her go to bed without interacting at all. It’s a little after one AM, and if I could only slow my racing thoughts, I should be asleep by now anyway.
“Shit,” Josie whispers, her footsteps uneven over the tiles. There’s the telltale slap of two flip flops kicked off across the kitchen, then the thump of a shoulder hitting a wall. “Shit,” she says again, then breaks into muffled giggles.
My cheeks ache as I smile at the ceiling.
She’s drunk. Little Josie Martin is tipsy as hell, tottering around and laughing in my dark kitchen.
The sofa springs plunk as I sit up, scrubbing one hand down my face, then flick on a nearby table lamp. Josie freezes mid-step like a burglar in the sudden wash of golden light.
“Intruder,” she hisses. “No, wait. I’m the intruder.”
Her hair is wild around her shoulders, more brown than blonde in this light, and a tiny twig clings to one lock.
“Yeah, well I’m thinking about getting a dog,” I tell her, strolling closer across the rug. I move slowly, no sudden movements, like she’s a finicky horse I don’t want to spook. “So you’ll have to make friends with it, or be more careful when you crash in here at night.”
Josie beams. “I love dogs.”
That’s settled, then. I’m getting one.
“We’ll get a rescue.” The twig comes easily when I pick it from her hair, several long, silky strands clinging on to the last second, and Josie sways toward me, blinking those big, green eyes.
“That makes sense. You like strays.”
I tuck the twig in my back pocket. Figured sleeping in jeans and an old t-shirt was safest, with no chance of her stumbling out of the bedroom in the morning and seeing something unplanned.
“Come on. Time for bed.”
Josie snorts and leans against me as I guide her to the bedroom, one hand braced on her back. “I wish, Everett Bray. Why are you sleeping on that lumpy sofa instead of in here with me?”
“You know why.”
Josie grumbles something under her breath, but she crawls onto the bed without argument. I cross to flick on the bedside lamp, then peel back the covers.
“Oh, wait.” She looks down at her blue dress like an afterthought, then shrugs and yanks it over her head, hooked by her injured thumbs.
“Jesus Christ.” Two rosy nipples stare at me, hard and pebbled in the cool air. I stumble back, chest thundering. “Get—get under those blankets.”
My legs carry me out of there like my beard is on fire, and when I come back a minute later with a glass of water, it trembles in my hand.
Clunk.I put the water on the nightstand, then retreat three paces.
She’s under the covers now, thank god.
And Josie Martin in my bed is a sight for sore eyes. Those long toffee-colored waves spill over my pillow, and the dark bedspread sinks over her body, molding to her dips and curves.
Those nipples.
Those fucking nipples.
I’ll remember that glimpse to my dying day.
“Did you like it?” Josie mumbles, bandaged hands flattened over her stomach above the bedspread. Her eyes are squeezed shut, like she can’t bear to see the answer in my eyes. “My body, I mean. Did you like seeing me just now, Mr Bray?”
