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10
The contents of Lucas’s refrigerator were sprawled out on the counter portion of the island.
Whenever he was out of sorts and struggling with things that were messy and involved… like, intense feelings, he organized, cleaned, and then organized some more.
While his dick felt like granite beneath his fly.
“Jesus, Santos, get a grip.” He then thought about doing just that. A quick trip into the half bathroom by the kitchen to rub one out before she finished showering might calm Santos Jr. down.
“This is ridiculous,” he whispered under his breath. “Man up. Your dick does not control you.”
He scrubbed the last shelf in his fridge, hoping the Clorox fumes would somehow deflate his raging erection. To move things along, he breathed in and out of his nose with thoughts of ice-cold water trickling over his dick and an obtuse tampon commercial.
“Wow, you sure choose odd times of the day to sanitize your refrigerator.”
Standing straight, with one hand holding a microfiber towel, he took her in.
Shit.
She was all fresh and shiny, wearing no makeup and a simple black cotton sweatsuit that managed to bring out the green in her eyes. Which also looked red and puffy.
Had she been crying?
That wasn’t good. A crying Birdie was his kryptonite.
Then, he noticed her hair. It was long. Had to have been considering the large, lanky bun perched on top of her head.
When she was in high school, she always kept it shoulder-length, every once in a while, coloring it some weird shade. One month it was purple, the next green. He had to assume that with so many chemicals in the dye it never seemed to grow past her shoulders.
Now, it looked full and healthy, yet he still doubted the various shades of highlights and lowlights were natural.
His eyes landed on her feet.
They were bare, with navy blue polish on the toenails, and for some inexplicable reason that got Santos Jr.’s attention.
Oh God.
He closed his eyes.
Freezing water trickling down his dick and over his nuts...
“Hello?” she prompted, forcing his eyes open, looking at him expectantly as if she’d said something that required a response.
Something about sanitization…
“Oh, yeah, well, something spilled.” He waved the towel behind him, toward the open doors of the refrigerator.
Lying about spillage in the fridge, like that wasn’t an all-time low.
“What time are you expecting Mia back?” She leaned on crossed arms against the island. “I have some serious grounding to do.”
“You’re pretty strict?”
She blew out a breath. “Not really. I’m pretty much all talk and she knows it. But I have a secret weapon.”
“What’s that?” he asked, returning the condiments to the side door, alphabetically.
“It’s not what, it’s who. I’ve got Angus MacGavin.”
