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4
He took another large swallow of his beer, then set it down on his dresser. He couldn’t hide the grin as he started moving all of his socks into a drawer where all his boxers sat. The dresser wasn’t small. A large rectangular dresser with six drawers made out of oak and heavy as shit. It had taken quite a lot of maneuvering and exerting every muscle he owned when he first moved it upstairs. His brother had helped.
When they had been on speaking terms.
He didn’t use the small closet in the bedroom for much, which was a good thing since he noticed Jezebelle had a lot of clothes. Every drawer in his dresser was full of his clothes. All folded and put in its place with care. He hadn’t lied to her when he said he was a neat guy. Didn’t do clutter, even in his dresser.
Now, his socks would be cramped with his boxers. No big deal. He had no problem whatsoever sharing a drawer with her. Although, he had to admit, he was surprised by her request.
The night had been odd, yet a fun time. Laughing with their friends. Sharing jokes and funny stories. Random tension jumping in here and there. Like when she had said with such derision that her mother would not stay at his place.
Oh, it still hurt to think about it. She had clarified quickly what she had meant, considering the old hag—what he’d start to call her in his mind—didn’t even stay with her. Her own daughter. What the hell was wrong with the woman?
His place might be small—and above a bar, not that classy—but it was his home. He kept it neat and clean. No funny smells from the bar, from either the kitchen or lingering alcohol. When the place was originally built, the insulation had been great. You couldn’t hear much from downstairs. Sure, a big party, the sound might drift more than other nights, but he didn’t think it would be enough where Jezebelle would complain.
How long would she live with him, anyway? He had a feeling not long.
He shut the empty drawer as a sly grin emerged.
Unless he changed her mind.
Because now that he had her somewhat in his clutches, he wasn’t prepared to let her go. He had a feeling it wouldn’t be easy. Not because Jezebelle didn’t return his affections. He knew she did. He saw the spark in her eyes, the desire in the way she licked her lips, letting him know right away he made her nervous.
No, it wouldn’t be easy because of her mother. Whatever kind of hold that woman had on her—enough to make Jezebelle pretend she was engaged—he’d have to break it with care and delicacy. As if he were on a dangerous mission where he had to be silent, yet deadly.
He could do that.
“I feel so much better. Great water pressure.”
He turned around at the sound of her voice. She was dressed in a cute T-shirt that said ‘sing it like you mean it, even in your dreams’ and a black pair of pajama pants. Her hair was damp, but not completely wet as if she had taken a quick blow-dry to it. If she had, he hadn’t heard the device going, but he had also been lost in his thoughts. She had no makeup on, although why she would apply more after taking a shower before bed, he wasn’t sure. He was glad she hadn’t because she didn’t need any. Her cheeks were rosy red from the shower. Her skin appeared flawless and smooth. An ache emerged with fierceness in his body that said he needed to find out how smooth.
She licked her bottom lip as if she read exactly what was on his mind. Oh, yeah, she should be nervous because he didn’t know if he’d be able to keep his hands to himself.
“Do you…umm…”—her tongue swooped across her lip again—“have an extra pillow and blanket for me?”
Just one more thing they’d have to move from her place to his. Funny. They should’ve at least grabbed her pillow for her, even though they hadn’t taken her bed yet.
“Yeah. Over here.” He tossed his head toward a small brown chest set on the right side of his dresser, almost hidden from view.
He could’ve grabbed it on his own, and he would’ve, but she started moving his way. He didn’t move a muscle. He clenched his jaw as she came closer, within his reach. Another tender swipe of her tongue across her lip had him fisting his hands. She was playing with fire. It wouldn’t take much for him to pull her into his arms.
But it could be too soon. He didn’t want to frighten her or make her run. What kind of friend would that make him? He was supposed to be helping her keep the old hag at a distance, not seducing her into his bed and into his heart. Well, she had already found a place in his heart. He now needed her in his bed.
The lid creaked as she lifted it. Her head jerked toward him before putting her full attention on the blankets in the chest. His grandmother’s chest. The thing had to be over a hundred years old. It was one of his favorite things she had left him when she passed away three years ago.
She pulled two blankets out, then replaced the lid, the lone creaking sound filling up the room.
She stood, clutching the blankets to her chest as her gaze darted back to him. “There are no pillows in there.”
He nodded toward his bed. “You can have one of mine.”
You can sleep there, too.
Though the words didn’t form. Too soon, he reminded himself.
She glanced at the pillow closest to her, yet didn’t grab it. Then she looked at him, or more like, past him.
“How comfy is the couch?”
