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Then he showed up this morning with the donuts. No real explanation, just a peace offering. He knows I can’t promise more than a few weeks. Last night, that seemed to be impossible for him. Now, he’s taking my breath away with his sexy doctor routine. Did he decide short-term is enough? Or is it like I thought—I’m his kryptonite, and he can’t stay away? I don’t want to hurt him, but I don’t know how to prevent it. Maybe if we spend enough time together, he’ll get tired of me.
They usually do.
Matt drags a chair to the middle of the room. I hold the back while he steps onto it and tapes the corners of a cheap plastic tablecloth to the middle of the ceiling. Leaving the chair in place, he reaches up to tape the other end to the top of the door. His shirt pulls up as he stretches, revealing an inch or two of smooth skin over muscle. I suck in some air and bite my tongue on the flirty comment that springs to my lips.
He finishes with the blue painter’s tape and turns. I drag my eyes to his face, but not before he notices my gaze. I can see it in the smirk hovering at the corners of his mouth. He grabs the bottom of his T-shirt and slowly lifts it to wipe his neck, as if he’s been working out in the hot sun. I swallow hard when his abs come into view—a solid six-pack with a light tan. He may be in his forties, but he’s got a body many younger men can only dream of.
Suddenly, there isn’t enough air in this room. My ears start to buzz.
The buzz turns to humming, then he belts out the opening riff of The Stripper. I burst out laughing, my face bright red. “Way to kill the mood.”
“I was afraid you were going to pass out. From all this glory.” He waves a hand down his now covered torso, but his tone is derisive.
“Don’t undersell yourself.” Trying to get back on task, I lift the garbage bag of balloons. “Now what?”
“Now you get up on that chair and put the balloons into the chute.” He waves at the plastic hanging from the ceiling. “It’s my turn to ogle.” He grabs the chair’s back to steady it.
With a chuckle, I step onto the chair. He puts his free hand on my hip. When I give him a pointed glare, he shrugs without moving his hands. “I just want to make sure you don’t fall off.”
His hand is hot against my hip, stable and comforting but distracting. I try to ignore it as I drop the balloons one by one into the chute. When I’ve got them all stowed, I climb down and step away. My hip feels cold.
“How do we get out without dumping the balloons?”
Matt stares at the shut door in consternation. “Uh…” He grabs the handle and pulls it open a few inches. The balloons shift overhead, then pile up behind the door as he pulls it wider. A few drop over the top, but most of them simply sit in the plastic now hanging loose behind the door. “Well, that didn’t work the way I envisioned.”
“I thought you knew what you were doing?” I try not to laugh, but a giggle sneaks out.
He chuckles, too. “I looked at videos on the internet, but they were all for purposeful balloon drops—like for a celebration, not a prank—where you pull a ribbon to release them. Let me think about this for a minute.” He swings the door back and forth a few times and pokes at the balloons in the bag. A few more drop over the door.
I grab the garbage bag and slip past him to pick up the escaping balloons. While he plays with the door some more, I grab the pump and the extra balloons and stash them on the dresser in the guest room. I don’t want to leave any evidence if Eva arrives before we’re done.
Eventually, Matt figures out how to attach the end to the doorjamb instead of the door. He puts the chair back in the center of the room then retreats to the doorway. “The problem is, I’ll have to stand here and keep the balloons in while you load the chute.”
I step on to the chair and start loading the balloons. “I think I can be trusted to not fall off a chair.” I shove a couple more into the plastic, then fake a wobble. “Whoa!”
Matt glares from the doorway. “Not funny. I can do this myself with the door closed and just climb out the window.”
“Oh, yeah, because that’s so much safer than standing on a chair.” I glance over my shoulder. The window has a fake balcony below it, but I’m not sure that would hold a person. “If you think I’m holding a ladder out there for you, you’re crazy.” I load the last of the balloons and hop down. Sticky notes flutter from the back of the chair. I slide it under the desk, replace the sticky notes that fell off, then duck under Matt’s arm and out of the room.
“Pull the door shut,” he says. “My arms are getting tired.”
I reach past him to grab the doorknob, putting a hand on his side where his shirt is riding up again. He sucks in a breath, and I snicker. Turnabout is fair play. I give his firm oblique a playful pat as I step away. My fingers don’t seem to want to leave, though. His skin is warm and smooth under my touch. I give the back of my head a mental slap and retreat across the hall.
He turns with me, his hands dropping to his sides. We stare at each other across the narrow space, eyes locked, breath ragged, the air thick with unsaid things.
Downstairs, the front door opens. “Yo, Dad! I’m home.”
I jerk my eyes from his face with a suppressed gasp.
“Eva.” He chokes a little on the name.
“You sure?” I’m almost inaudible, breathy instead of the snarky tone I intended.
He points a finger at me. “Stay here. I’ll deal with you later.” Then he clatters down the steps.
A young woman appears at the bottom. Her hair is pink, and she has a stud in her nose. She wears an ancient-looking T-shirt with a faded image across the front—I barely make out what might have been a guitar before Matt wraps his arms around her and swings her away. “I was wondering when you’d get here!”
I hover at the top of the stairs, unsure what to do. If I walk down the stairs as if I belong here, she’s going to wonder what we were doing. My face goes hot. She’s twenty-one years old—she’s not going to wonder, she’s going to assume the worst. I got the impression Matt hasn’t dated much since his divorce—how is Eva going to react to another woman in the house?
