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He throws me one of those sardonic smirks, leaning a hip against my tiny kitchen’s one counter. “I’m plenty comfortable here.”
“Delightful.” Walking toward my dresser, I drag the curtain that I’ve anchored to the ceiling around me, giving me a makeshift bedroom and privacy to change. “Okay.” I tug off my shirt, then my sports bra. “Hypothetically speaking. What would a…badass gal wear to a casual meal?”
It’s quiet. Too quiet. I lean back past the curtain so just my head is stuck out. Sebastian’s back is to me now. He’s staring at my bookshelves. “Sebastian?”
“What?” His voice is tight, and he doesn’t turn around.
“I asked what I should wear.”
“Whatever the hell you want,” he snaps.
“Geez,” I mutter.
A heavy sigh leaves him. “You should wear something that makes you feel good.”
“Yeah, but I want to look good, too. I don’t know how to do that.”
There’s a long pause. Another heavy sigh. “Do you have clothes on?”
“Uhh…” I stare down at my bare boobs. “No,” I answer slowly. “Why?”
“Put something on. A robe at least.”
“You’re bossy.”
“I’m hungry. Someone interrupted my bender, and now that my stomach is empty of liquor, it’s painfully aware that it’s empty of food, too. I’d like to eat sometime tonight.”
“Robe’s on, crankapotamus.”
I hear the thud of his air cast boot across my parquet floors, then the curtain whips back. He stares at me, and his jaw clenches. I tug my robe tighter. Suddenly the soft white waffle cotton that comes halfway down my thighs feels like a deeply insufficient amount of material.
Brushing by me, Sebastian yanks open my dresser drawers, riffling through them. “No. No. No. Jesus, woman, do you own anything that isn’t ninety-five percent Lycra?”
“You’re real funny, Gauthier.”
“I’m supposed to find something edgy that you can wear from this selection? It’s like asking Monet to paint with peanut butter.”
I bite my lip so I won’t laugh. That was kind of funny.
“Ah-hah.” Sebastian yanks out a black double-strap, low-impact sports bra that I wear for yoga and tosses it onto my bed.
He digs around the same drawer some more, until he finds a white racerback tank top that I sleep in, so soft and worn, it’s semi-sheer now. “That,” he mutters. “And…”
Shooing me back, he drops onto the edge of my bed so he can reach the lower drawers and riffle through them, too. He finds a pair of faded jeans—the only pair I’ve ever owned and actually liked the feel of—that I sadly had to give up after my last growth spurt. They still fit my hips, though they’re more form fitting than they originally were, but they’re too short now, an odd length that aggravates my ankles.
Holding up the jeans, he inspects them. “These.”
“They feel weird.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Then why are they in your drawer?”
“Because they’re nostalgic.”
“Nostalgic. What the hell is there to be nostalgic about when it comes to jeans?”
“Just give me those.” I try to yank them from him, but Sebastian yanks back, sending me tumbling onto him, both of us collapsing onto my bed.
I stare down at him, wide-eyed, frozen. My legs straddle his hips. My pelvis presses right into his.
