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I push my front door open and stand in the middle of my apartment, my eyes still locked onto the note and the number scrawled at the bottom. Her handwriting is loopy and a little erratic, theg’s andl’s taking up more space than they should. There’s nothing efficient about her style. It’s wild and free, probably scrawled quickly and without much consideration.
I crumple the note, toss it into the wastepaper basket by my bookshelf and continue toward my bedroom. I shower quickly, intending to get into something comfortable and then open up my laptop. But when I come back out to the lounge room, my eyes immediately go to the wastepaper basket.
I won’t go to her apartment and I won’t invite her to mine.
No casual sex. That’s the rule.
But what about phone calls? It’s a loophole and my brain loves a flaw in a carefully formed plan. I dig out the crumpled paper and reach for my phone. And for the second night in a row, I ignore my instincts.
Blondie picks up on the third ring.
CHAPTER SIX
Drew
“YOUSAIDTOcall when it was late.”
I’m hazy and still within slumber’s firm grip, but the sound of a gravelly voice that’s rich like dark chocolate and sinful as a forbidden tryst has me stretching my body. Waking myself. I’m a little shocked he called.
“What timeisit?” I’m on the couch, wearing the T-shirt from last night under a blanket that’s cosy and warm.
“Twelve thirty,” he says.
“Did you just get home?”
“I did.”
“Why do you work so late?” I snuggle into the corner of the couch and pull the blanket up to my chin. There’s something nostalgic about this—a late-night call when I know I should be asleep. I feel like a naughty teenager, sneaking time away with her crush.
“I’m a busy man.”
“Not so busy that you don’t have time to watch a little live entertainment.” I bite down on my bottom lip, stifling a smile at the appreciative grunt on the other end of the line. I try to picture him. Is he standing by his window hoping I’ll be there again? Or is he in his bed, in boxer briefs and with his chest bare? Or maybe he’s in a towel.
“You put on one hell of a show,” he says. There’s a darkness to his voice and it’s making my heart flutter.
“It felt a little one-sided,” I admit. “I showed you mine, but you didn’t show me yours.”
“Is it so bad to watch?”
The question sends a delicious shiver through me. “No, I like watching. I like listening, too.”
When he chuckles it’s like someone is running a razorblade over my nerve endings. How can a laugh make me feel so much?
“I like knowing the women I have sex with,” he replies.
“Who said we’re having sex?”
“I assume you didn’t slip your number into my door so I could give you a wakeup call for nothing.”
I grin. “I did not.”
“Then why did you do it, Blondie?”
I laugh. “I’ve been calling you Mr. Suit in my head all day long. Seems we’ve both got nicknames for one another.”
“I was trying to figure out whatDstood for,” he said. “I’ve already crossed off Danielle, Debbie and Diana.”
“You would be correct, so far.” Not that I have any intention of telling him my name—I made that promise to myself last night. Nothing real. This is just for fun. A necessary diversion while the rest of my life is smoking ruins. “I’ll tell you it’s not Deanna, Deirdre or Dominique, either.”
