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I watch the big animal on the screen as he stalks around his pride’s latest kill, taking the choicest pieces of meat for himself.
The way Desmond moves reminds me of a big, predatory cat—like when his eyes drop to half-mast and he watches me, circling me like that lion, deciding what pieces of me he likes best. Or when he gets up from a chair or a crouch, unfolding that long body in slow, graceful movements. Or when he combs his fingers through his hair, tousling it slightly.
Even when he’s wearing a button-down and slacks, he can never quite hide the power beneath the polished veneer.
Then my phone buzzes—a message from a different man. I shake my head and answer his message about the show, trying to push my new landlord out of my mind. One man is more than enough. I don’t need two. I certainly don’t need to feed this silly, annoying attraction to Desmond Thomas. I don’t evenlikethe man, for crying out loud. Better to focus on the guy currently texting me. I may not know his name yet—or whether or not I’ll be attracted to him when we meet—but at least I know we have things in common, and he’s here, with me, if only virtually.
I wakeup on the couch with the throw blanket pulled up to my chin. Bailey pokes me in the cheek and says, “We’re out of milk.”
I rub my eyes and sit up. “Okay. Give me a second.”
“Okay.” Bailey saunters out of view behind the couch.
What time is it? When did I fall asleep? The TV is on, but the screen is blank, so I flick it off while a yawn makes my jaw crackle and pop. I turn to squint at the time on the microwave, but the numbers are blurry. I claw at the cushions around me to find my phone and tap the screen. Seven o’clock in the morning. Jeez. I don’t even remember falling asleep.
That’s when I hear Bailey’s voice in the direction of the front door. “Hi. Do you have any milk? We ran out and I want cereal for breakfast.”
A deep voice rumbles in response. “Um. Sure. I’ll bring it across. Give me a minute.”
I jump off the couch like I’ve just been electrocuted.
“Are you a Lakers fan?” Bailey asks, her voice rising in excitement. “You like basketball? Where did you get those socks? I’m a Golden State Warriors fan, but I don’t have any socks with their logo on them. Those are really cool.”
A chuckle. “Thanks. Maybe Santa Claus will bring you some for Christmas if you’re nice.”
“Santa doesn’t exist, silly. Don’t you know that yet? I figured it out like two whole years ago. Aren’t you like, really old?”
Another laugh, deeper this time. “Not that old. How’d you figure it out?”
“The handwriting on the tags from Mom was the same as Santa’s.”
“Clever,” Des replies, the smile evident in his voice. “Let me get that milk and I’ll be right over.”
Jarred out of my stupor, I take one step toward the door, and get my feet tangled in the blanket. I kick the blanket off my toes.
Bailey, in true Bailey Abbott fashion, completely ignores Des’s request and keeps talking. “What happened to your coffee table? Why is there a big bag of broken glass next to the door?”
I stop moving, frowning. Was that the crash I heard?
“It broke,” comes the deep response. “Be careful. It’s safety glass, but I don’t want you to touch any of the pieces. You could still cut yourself, and your mom already dislikes me enough as it is.”
“Okay. She doesn’t dislike you, by the way. She just gets all red and jittery when you’re around, and she doesn’t like feeling that way. It’s kind of funny.”
Ha-ha. My kid is freaking hilarious. I need to get her back here,now. I take another step toward the door, on top of the blanket this time.
“How did the table break?”
Desmond clears his throat. “An accident.”
I pause, curious.
“What kind of accident?”
“If you keep asking me questions, I won’t be able to get you any milk for your breakfast.”
“I want cereal.”
“You mentioned that. I’ll be over in a second, okay? Go back home.”
