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On that, I darted to the room, closed the door and started banging my head against the wall.
What a start to the day.
I did as I promised, I counted to two hundred, well, I got to about eighty-nine, because after that, I heard the front door open and close, and in a handful of seconds, the roar of a bike starting then driving off.
Shit.
I scared him off.
My eyes went to the mirror.
I flinched.
Of course I scared him off. I resembled some kind of swamp creature, and I stared at his junk, babbled about who knew what, and then scampered off into my room.
We’d probably never see him again.
It was as I was emerging from the shower that I realized I shouldn’t have used the word never.
I also should have brought my clothes into the bathroom with me, and I certainly shouldn’t have left all of my clean underwear in the laundry basket in the living room.
That became apparent when I entered the living room that was no longer empty.
Some time between shaving my legs and deciding that I was no longer allowed to talk to hot men without an adult present, Lance had arrived back, entered the house with the water of my shower somehow drowning out the noise.
And he was sitting on my sofa.
And I was standing in the middle of the living room.
Naked.
Except for a towel.
But that was just details, because in order to get dressed, I had to walk toward him, to snatch a pair of underwear from the hamper almost directly in front of him. Not only would he see that, but there was no way to hide the fact I was planning on grabbing a pair of boy shorts with prints of hamburgers on them.
How in the holy hell had I managed to show him my entire underwear collection in the space of twelve hours?
And why did all of my underwear have to be so frickin’ embarrassing?
“Oh, so we’ve both seen each other almost naked, so we’re even now I guess,” I said as a greeting, blinking at him, clutching the towel to my body and dripping water all over the place.
What the heck was wrong with me?
His gaze was blank, and he seemed unaffected by the fact that I was standing in front of him naked. His fists were clenched on top of his knees but I couldn’t tell if that was his resting posture, rigid, taut, as if he were ready for an attack from an inappropriately horny, naked single mother.
He obviously didn’t respond to my idiotic opening sentence.
“I didn’t think you were coming back. I thought the lumpy sofa, the Barney blanket and the whole me seeing you naked thing kind of scared you the heck off,” I continued, realizing that a man like this had likely been through a lot scarier shit than this and I was thinking a lot of myself if I thought I was puncturing through whatever his badass professional shield.
Again, no answer, he just moved his eyes from where they were locked to mine—they did not stray any lower than my small towel, in a strangely chivalrous gesture—to my coffee table.
I followed his gaze.
Amongst my books, a couple of Nathan’s coloring books and crystals, was a box of donuts.
The good kind too. From the best bakery in town, owned by a woman who seemed totally trendy, awesome and all-around nice. And from what I heard, she could bake. I’d tried her stuff once or twice when we had brunch at my or Karen and Eliza’s and they bought pastries and muffins that seemed to be the baked goods version of crack.
I actually dreamed about them for the week after.
As good as they were, they were out of my price range. I baked for Nathan and myself mostly because it was cheapest and also made sure I knew what I was putting in the food.
But I did fantasize about one day being able to wake up early, drive to the bakery, get coffee and a plethora of baked goods, sit outside and just enjoy them.
That was not in my budget or my schedule.
But here was Lance, at seven in the morning, bringing the good donuts. My eyes moved to the tray of four coffees.
I opened my mouth, to do what, I wasn’t sure, maybe propose marriage, but he beat me to it.
“The door was unlocked,” he said, voice flat. Something moved in his eyes, though. I knew that because despite the fact I was staring at the bakery box with something akin to love and longing, his voice was a magnet, pulling all of my attention.
“What?” I replied.
“The door. When I left, figured you’d hear, you’d lock it behind me… considerin’.” He paused, his fists stayed clenched and they seemed to tighten as if he were trying to control something. Everything else about him stayed even. “Yet I come back, you in the fuckin’ shower, kid still asleep and the door is fucking unlocked.”
