by J B Heller
Spinning around, he glares at me. “So this is how it’s going to be, is it? You can check out the goods, but I can’t?”
I roll my eyes. “Pfft, like you can keep your eyes to yourself, you perv. You couldn’t help yourself if you tried—you’re staring at my tits right now.”
His eyes bounce back up to mine. “You’re not wearing a bra! And what the fuck are you wearing? Are they Powerpuff Girls?”
Grinning, I nod. “Yeah, they are! Powerpuff Girls are awesome. And you know how I feel about bras. This isn’t a new development. I’m not going to start wearing one now just because you don’t have any self-control.”
He sighs and presses a hand to his heart. “Thank God. I was worried you’d start dressing like a nun.”
I laugh. “Yeah, no. That’s not going to happen… ever.”
“Good.” He smirks and turns back to the stove, preparing our breakfast.
I’ve been thinking about her all day. So much so that I almost stuffed up an oil change. And you have to be pretty fucking stupid to stuff that up. I’ve never been interested enough in a chick to care what she was doing through the day. Now, I’m kicking myself for not getting Reagan’s number so I could text her to check in.
I almost went back home on my lunch break just to check up on her—almost. How fucking pathetic is that? What? I can’t go a full day without seeing her? I can’t be pussy whipped. To be that, we’d have to have had sex. And we haven’t.
It feels like I’ve known her a hell of a lot longer than a couple of days. Besides my sister, she’s the first chick I’ve actually spent time around. And the thought of spending more time with her makes my heart beat faster with anticipation.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m turning into Simon. That pansy-arse bastard; he’s gone and rubbed his lovesick-puppy shit all over me.
I scowl at my reflection in the steam-fogged mirror. Snap out of it, dickhead. She’s your friend.
Drying myself off, my thoughts inevitably wander back to her and her reaction to my dick the day we met. My lips tug up in a smile. God, she is something else. And there I go again, thinking of her all fondly and shit.
I wasn’t lying this morning when I told her if anyone could make me want to try for more, it would be her. She’s smart, funny as shit, and so fucking sexy in that nerdy way that makes her not just sexy, but adorable, too. I’ve got half a chub just thinking about her.
Closing my eyes, I can almost smell the floral scent that coats her soft skin. I inhale deeply; I want her. And it’s not just because she’s hot. I knew she was before we actually met. We’d passed each other in the hallways before and shared the elevator a few times. I didn’t start wanting her until I started getting to know her.
She’s gotten under my skin in just a few short days, and I don’t know if I want to shake her off or tie myself to her.
Scrubbing my hand through my hair, I glare at myself again. I’ve never been so confused. I throw my towel on the rack to dry and stalk into my bedroom. After collapsing on the bed, I lie there, thinking about her on the other side of the wall until I fall asleep.
I’m not a morning person. So the fact that I’ve gotten out of bed the second my alarm has sounded every morning this week says a lot. Especially since it’s set an hour earlier than usual so I can spend time with Reagan—I mean, check in on her.
I snort at myself. I think it’s time to admit I’m not doing this for her benefit but my own. She puts me in a good mood for the rest of the day. I haven’t thrown a spanner at my worker, Jake, all week.
Leaning over the small sink in my bathroom, I fill my hands with warm water and scrub at my face, then reach for my toothbrush and paste. I give my teeth a good once-over, then go into my spare room to rummage through my clothes. Finding a set of work gear, I throw them on, then slip my feet into my boots before walking out the door.
At six a.m. on the dot, I’m knocking at Reagan’s door.
She opens it slowly, cautiously poking her head around, before opening it fully for me.
I frown down at her. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, was just making sure we didn’t have a repeat of yesterday. You know, when you fell through the door and nearly killed me.” She smiles at me.
I have to force my hands to stay at my sides. That damn smile—it gets me every time. Clearing my throat, I push past her. “That’s not exactly how I remember it. It was more like you couldn’t wait to see me and threw the door open, knowing I would fall right into you. It was all a ploy for your dirty little hands to rub up on me.”
She scoffs as she closes the door and hobbles along after me. “I don’t think so. You’re the one who can’t keep your eyes off my tits. I think you positioned yourself just right so that you would fall into me, thereby giving you the perfect excuse to cop a feel.”
I throw back my head, laughing as I open her fridge. “Yeah, okay, whatever you need to tell yourself. Now, let’s see what we have to work with today.” I scan the contents of her fridge and frown. She needs groceries. “You need to go shopping; your stocks are seriously depleted.”
“That’s your fault. You eat like a horse,” she says from her spot on the bar stool.
True. I should probably get her some stuff to replace what I’ve eaten. “I’ll take you tomorrow and go you halves.”
“Okay.”
“You’ve still got cheese and bread; how do you feel about grilled cheese for breakfast?”
“I’m good with whatever you put in my mouth,” she chirps.
I straighten and stare at her. Does she even realise what she just said? One of my brows raises. “Whatever I put in your mouth? You’re so dirty!”
She rolls her eyes. “You have a dirty mind. You know what I meant.”
“I’m beginning to think you do this shit on purpose,” I tell her, and the look of mock innocence that blankets her face gives her away. “You’re such a bad liar.”
Unable to contain her laughter any longer, she erupts. “Yeah, okay. You got me. But I don’t mean things to sound that way when I say them. I usually only realise it after the words have left my mouth.” She shrugs. “I don’t really care though; I crack myself up.”
“I bet you do.” I shake my head at her, turn back to the kitchen, and start making our breakfast.
“How’d you get to be so comfortable in all your naked glory?”
I stop buttering the bread and look at her over my shoulder. “I don’t know. I’ve just never been a shy kind of guy. Where the hell did that question come from anyway?”
“I was just staring at your butt, and Saturday morning popped into my mind. I’m kicking myself for not paying attention to it when you weren’t wearing any pants.” She sighs, her regret evident.
I swallow, my mouth suddenly feeling way too dry. I snatch a glass out of the cabinet, fill it with water, and down it. She’s being her playful self. Nothing has changed between us, and I’m both relieved by the fact and a little frustrated. I mean, I don’t want her to change, but it’s her chill, “anything goes” personality that I’m attracted to. She’s not making this easy on me.
Snapping myself out of my thoughts, I reply, “Right, well you had your chance. It was a one-time show. Not my fault you were so preoccupied with my cock you forgot to check out the buns, too.”
A devilish grin spreads across her mouth. “It was hard to look past.” She shrugs. “What can I say? It was just right there, you know? And it’s very impressive. I was a little afraid of it for a minute, but something that perfect can’t be scary. I wish you’d tell me his name. I don’t like thinking of him as an inanimate object.”
Stupid me for thinking this conversation couldn’t get worse. She thinks about my dick. And damn, if that doesn’t make him happy. He’s paying attention now, listening to every word out of her devious little mouth.
“I’ll tell you his name, if you tell me her name. Fair is fair.” I dip my head down and gesture to her promised land with my chin.
; She shrugs. “Okay. Her name is Mary.”
My brows pucker in a deep frown. “As in, the Virgin Mary?”
“Ugh, no,” she says, shaking her head adamantly. “As in, Mary, Queen of Scots.”
“I don’t get it.”
She clenches her jaw, puckers her lips, and averts her eyes.
“Reagan, what aren’t you telling me?” I prod.
A guttural groan fills the space, and I laugh at her dramatics.
“Fine! I’ll tell you. Okay, so my first was a guy named Scot. It was super awful and awkward—as is every important moment in my life. Anyway, prior to this exchange with Scot, her name was Mary. Just Mary. Afterwards, she became Mary, Queen of Scots. Then, as it happens, the next two men I slept with were also named Scot.”
“Seriously? Was that by design? Or ... ” I’m really fucking curious now.
Leaning her elbows on the bench, she rests her chin in her hands. “Not really. Not my design, anyway. But Char thought it would be hilarious, and seeing as she’s like my only friend, she made it her mission to set me up with guys called Scot after I told her about Mary’s name evolution.”
I’m laughing so hard I have to support myself against the bench. “That is fantastic. I think I need to meet this friend of yours.”
Lifting both her shoulders, her face remains expressionless. “She’s just as strange as me. No, actually, she’s worse. Much worse. Just so you know.”
I grin. “She sounds like a good time.”
She grumbles something to herself, then suddenly perks up. “Your turn!”
“Alright, alright.” I take a deep breath. “Prepare yourself. It’s pretty epic.”
Her eyes glitter, and she shuffles to the edge of her stool, leaning farther forward on her elbows. “I’m ready. Tell me.”
“His name is Prince Everhard of the Netherlands,” I announce proudly.
It takes a solid five seconds for her to react. She blinks once, then twice, then her forehead hits the counter, and her whole body quakes with laughter.
My chest deflates. “It’s a good name, dammit. I don’t know why you’re laughing.”
I get no response this time. She completely ignores me as she gasps for air through her fits of laughter. I roll my eyes, then move about the kitchen, making our coffees.
Ten minutes later, she’s wiping tears from her cheeks and grinning at me like the fucking Cheshire Cat. I glare back as I slide her mug of steaming coffee over to her. “I picked this mug just for you.”
The cup I gave her has a picture of a cartoon uterus holding up a sign that reads, Stay Nasty. How fitting for the little creature sitting across from me.
She just shrugs and takes a sip of coffee. Dried tear streaks stick to her pink cheeks, and her eyes shine the brightest blue I’ve seen them yet. Why does she always have to look so damn appealing? It’s frustrating as fuck. I run a hand through my hair, then snatch up the plates with our grilled cheese on them. “You’re a killjoy, you know that?”
Her lips tug to the side. “Prince Everhard,” she snorts, then composes her features by taking a deep breath. “That’s the best name for a penis I’ve ever heard. Seriously, you were right, and I wasn’t prepared.”
I nod, satisfied. “Damn right it is.”
Just as I’m about to leave for work, I remember to ask for Reagan’s number. I enter her name as Queen of Scots in my phone, then put mine in hers as Prince Everhard.
It’s been exactly one week since I had a real shower. The thought makes me cringe. I showered before bed last Friday night, and that was the last time. I can’t begin to express how much that disturbs me. I think I should be able to handle one now since my foot is feeling a little better.
I strip off my clothes and hobble into my bathroom. Leaning in, I reach for the tap when the distinct sound of knocking reaches my ears. I drop my head back. You have got to be kidding me.
Twisting around, I wobble my way back out, pausing to snatch my silky bathrobe off the back of my bedroom door. I wrangle it into place while balancing precariously on my crutches.
The knocking continues.
“I’m coming!” I yell down the hall, frustrated by whoever is standing between me and my first shower in seven days.
When I reach the door, I tug it open with more force than necessary, causing the flimsy knot I tied in my robe to unravel with my jerky movements. Before I can do anything about it, Rhett’s big hands are tugging the two sides back together for me.
“Holy shit,” he breathes.
I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard. Then, keeping one hand curled tightly around the two sides of my robe, he reaches blindly for the ties with his free hand. Once he has both pieces, he ties them together so tight I know it’s going to take me forever to untie them.
Only when he’s satisfied that I’m fully covered does he speak. “Jesus, Reagan, what the hell? You can’t answer your door like that. What if I was an axe murderer looking for my next victim?”
My eyes narrow on him. “If you were an axe murderer, I’d take you down with a swift crutch to the crotch,” I shoot back. “And I didn’t mean to answer the door like that. My robe was tied; it just came undone when I pulled the door open. I wasn’t expecting anyone, and I was about to take a shower.”
“A crutch to the crotch, huh?” He smiles.
I nod. “Yes. I may be incapacitated right now, but I still know how to protect myself.”
One of his hands rises to the back of his neck, rubbing it as he looks down at me. “Okay, well, sorry for interrupting you. I just… ah… I was just wondering if you wanted to eat with me tonight? We could get takeout?” He’s looking at his boots when he says, “It’s cool if you’re sick of me, though.”
My grin is instant. “I’d like that.”
His eyes rise, meeting mine. “Great, good.”
I shift to let him in, then close the door behind him. I follow him back to the lounge but hover by the hallway to my room. “I’m just going to shower. I’m dying to feel the hot water against my skin. It’s been too long. You go ahead and order whatever, and I’ll be out in a bit.”
He nods. “Okay, cool.”
My shower is the best. I have a sunken bath with the most amazing shower head above. I turn the water on, then slip my robe off. Leaning my crutches against the sink, I hold onto the wall and stare into the tub.
How the hell am I going to get down there?
Using the wall to keep my balance, I slide down until I’m on my butt, then slip my legs into the tub. Putting most of my weight on my good foot, I edge towards the hot spray of the water, sighing when it hits my body.
It feels incredible. I stand, absorbing the warmth and letting the showerhead work its magic on my sore muscles. Getting around on crutches all week has got me aching in places I hadn’t expected.
Tipping my head back, I close my eyes and let the water run over my face and down my body. My hair feels so nasty after using nothing but dry-shampoo for the last few days. Reaching for my shampoo, I squirt a huge dollop into my palm and bring it to the top of my head. My fingers get to work spreading and massaging it in when a stray glop slides down my forehead and into my eyeball.
Dear God, it burns! I squeal and rub at my eye, forgetting my hands are covered in the stuff.
“Shiiiittttttt!” I scream. Too much; I used too much. Tears are streaming down my cheeks when I try to pry my eye open under the shower spray to wash it out.
The bathroom door flies open with a bang, startling me so much I jump. The tub floor is slippery as shit from all the shampoo, so down I go in a mass of flailing arms and legs.
“Fuck! Are you okay?” Rhett is saying from above me. His hair is wet and hanging in his eyes, droplets of water streaming over his head.
I blink up at him. “What?” I’m so confused. One minute I’m washing my hair, the next I’m horizontal with a fully clothed and very wet Rhett in the shower with me. “What happened?” I ask him, dazed. Did I hit my head? It hurts.<
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Lifting my hand to rub my forehead, my fingers meet suds. I close my eyes and shake my head slowly. Why do these things keep happening to me?
If fully clothed Reagan is hard for me to resist, let’s just say naked Reagan is almost impossible. It’s the flash of pain in her eyes as she runs her fingers over her scalp that stops me from doing something stupid, like kissing her.
I swallow. Beautiful isn’t a strong enough word to describe the woman splayed out before me. She is perfect. There is nothing I would change about her. Not one single thing.
Smiling down at her, I ask, “You think you can sit up now?” I’m careful not to let my eyes linger too long where they shouldn’t.
She licks her wet lips. “Yeah, I think so.”
Wrapping my hands around her bare shoulders, I help pull her into a sitting position. Her wet hair hangs around her, full of suds, and it dawns on me what must have happened. “You got shampoo in your eye?”
Biting down on her bottom lip, she nods then looks up at me. Her left eye is red and angry-looking. “Honey,” I murmur, cupping her jaw in my palm. Her skin is slick and soapy, and I have to remind myself that she’s hurt.
“Here,” I say, “turn around.” She brings her knees to her chest, and I take her shoulders in my hands again, then help spin her. “Close your eyes,” I instruct as I gently tilt her chin back so her head is partially under the shower spray.
Moving so my legs are in the tub, I sit on the edge and run my hands through her hair, removing the shampoo. Once it’s all out, I put some of her conditioner in my palm and spread it evenly through her long locks. Silky strands slide between my fingers and she sighs.
Her arms curl around her knees, and her head hangs back, resting in my hands. It feels surreal sitting here, washing her hair. I’ve never done anything like this before. It strikes me that this moment feels more intimate than any other I’ve shared with a woman before.
Sex is about mutual satisfaction. But this… this is all about her. She’s so vulnerable. Yet, here she is, giving me her trust. My chest constricts with emotions I don’t know how to handle.
