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Nine
Luke was out of town and her landlord was ignoring her calls. Sabrina had spent the last two days without clean water, even though various other units on her floor had plenty. She knew—she’d knocked on doors and asked. She’d been brushing her teeth and washing her face and other body parts at the sink using jugs of distilled water and washcloths, but this was getting ridiculous.
Desperate, she’d texted Flynn a mile-long message detailing how she really wanted to take a shower and cook something and how Luke was gone and her landlord was a neglectful jerk, and could she please, please come over for an hour. Just long enough to return to feeling human again.
Then she stared at the screen waiting for his response. According to the time on her phone she’d sent the text eight minutes ago.
Things had been fairly normal between them since Valentine’s Day, she supposed. She’d checked in on him to make sure he wasn’t working every day and then went about enjoying her vacation...sort of.
A stack of canvases leaned against an easel and her paints were lined up on the kitchen table like colorful little soldiers. But the canvases were as dry as her shower floor. Inspiration hadn’t arrived with the downtime like it was supposed to, so instead of creating art, she’d been reading novels and cleaning her apartment. The place was sparkling, not a speck of dust to be found anywhere, and her to-be-read pile was in a reusable tote to be returned to Mrs. Abernathy across the hall. That woman loved her romance novels and had lent Sabrina a stack of them a while back. Until now, she hadn’t taken time to read them.
She also learned that reading romance novels after a confusing kiss from her best friend meant her mind would slot him into the hero role in every book. So far Flynn had starred as the rakish Scot who fell for a married, time-traveling lass, a widower artist pining for his deceased wife’s best friend and a ridiculously cocky NFL player who won over a type-A journalist.
No matter how the author portrayed the hero, dark hair, red hair, brown eyes or green, Sabrina gave every hero Flynn’s full, firm lips and warm, broad hands. Each of them had his expressive blue eyes and permanent scruff and angled jaw. And when she arrived at the sex scenes—hoo boy! She knew what Flynn looked like with his shirt off, and wearing nothing but board shorts, but she’d never seen him naked.
Mercy, the authors were descriptive about that part of the hero. She’d allowed herself the luxury of attaching that talented member to the Flynn in her head. As a result, she’d had a week’s worth of reading that had proved to be more sexually frustrating than relaxing. She needed to have sex with someone other than herself and soon. She didn’t know what the equivalent of female blue balls was, but she had them.
Was it any wonder she’d reached out to Flynn after all she’d done was imagine him in every scenario?
It might be wrong, but it felt right.
Just like texting him had been right but felt wrong. She wished there was a way to retract the text, but there it sat. Unanswered. Maybe she could borrow Mrs. Abernathy’s shower instead. That might be safer.
At the fifteen-minute mark without a response, she decided to let him off the hook. She was keying in the words Never mind when her phone rang in her hand. The photo on the screen was one of Flynn sitting at his desk, GQ posed as he leaned back in the leather chair. It was the day he’d moved to the office upstairs after his father left Monarch and announced that he was ill.
Flynn looked unhappy even lampooning for the camera like she’d asked. She’d hoped asking him to be silly with her for a second would improve his mood, but cheering him up had been an uphill climb ever since.
“Hi,” she answered, and began to pace the room.
“I’m coming over. Pack what you need for the weekend. I’m going to have a chat with your landlord, but in the meantime, you’re staying with me.”
“Uh...” What? “No, that’s okay. I just need a quick shower.”
“Sabrina, I’m already pissed this has been going on so long and you haven’t told me.”
“I didn’t want to bother you.” Plus, she didn’t know how to behave after he’d kissed her and then acted like he hadn’t for the last week.
“See you in a few minutes.” He disconnected and she quirked her mouth indecisively before turning for her dresser and pulling open the top drawer.
“No big deal,” she reassured herself as she riffled through her undergarments, but when her fingertips encountered clingy satin and soft lace thongs, she bit down on her bottom lip. A surge of warmth slid through her like honey as a mashup of love scenes from the novels she’d read this week flickered in the forefront of her mind like a dirty movie. One that starred Flynn. She held up the silky red underwear.
Definitely this was a bad idea.
She dug deeper in the drawer and pulled out her sensible cotton bikini briefs. They came in a package of four: two navy blue, one red and one white. There. Harmless. She threw them on the bed and then bypassed the sexy bra, choosing the nude one instead. It was designed to be worn under T-shirts and not reveal her nipples, and if that wasn’t the perfect choice for a platonic night or two spent at Flynn’s she didn’t know what was.
From there she chucked a few pairs of jeans, a dress and T-shirts as well as a nice blouse onto the bed. Shoes were last. Since she was wearing her trusty Converses, a pair of flats would do nicely with the dress or jeans. Plus, she wasn’t going to be at Flynn’s for long. A night or two, tops. She was sure her landlord would have the plumbing issue fixed soon, she thought with a spear of doubt.
She could admit that it wasn’t the worst idea for her and Flynn to be around each other in person. They could tackle the issue of The Kiss head-on. It was totally possible he’d been caught up in the spirit of Valentine’s Day at the Market. Maybe she had, as well. Maybe they’d both been swamped by a rogue wave of pheromones from the other happy couples walking the pier that day. That could’ve been what made him—
“Kiss me until I couldn’t remember my own name.” She shook her head and sighed. She sounded like one of Mrs. Abernathy’s romance novels.
A sharp rap at her front door startled her and she let out a pathetic yelp.
Shaking off her tender nerves, she drew a breath before facing Flynn for the first time since last Monday. He stood in her doorway, sexy as hell, and her gaze took it upon itself to hungrily rove over his jeans and sweater.
He looked like the same old Flynn, but different.
Because you know what he tastes like.
