18. Cleo
When I return from the bathroom, Zeke’s gone. My phone is on the bed, my discarded clothes on the floor, and a wet spot on the mattress. I feel a pang of disappointment. Yes, I rushed out. No, I didn’t want him to leave. I just had to get away from him. Had to stop the skin-on-skin contact. The cuddling. It gave me too many feels. I don’t trust myself where he’s concerned.
I pull on my panties and shirt, then head into the living room. My heart skips a beat and my tummy does this little flip-flop. He’s still here. He’s sitting on my sofa drinking a beer and watching television.
“I thought you left.”
“I didn’t.”
My lips twitch, wanting to smile. I come sit beside him, and he grabs my legs, pulling them over his. He’s watching a cooking show. A fucking cooking show. Rather than give him shit, I say nothing. The more I get to know Zeke Ford, the more I like him.
His hand absentmindedly rubs my legs. Thank God I shaved. I relax against the cushions, enjoying his company as well as his silence. It’s getting late, but I have no intention of asking him to leave. After a while, he lays on the opposite end, our legs tangled over each other. With a grin, he massages my feet.
“Food, beer, sex, and now a foot massage? What are you trying to do to me?” I joke.
He takes my toes into his mouth, twirling his tongue over the digits, and I squirm. I swear, he’s a sex addict. Maybe I am, too. Addicted to him anyway. Unfortunately, his phone interrupts.
“Yeah?” he answers, still rubbing my foot with one hand. “I’m busy. Get one of the prospects to handle it.” Whoever he’s talking to must not like that response because he replies, “Fine. Give me fifteen minutes.”
“I gotta go,” he says once he hangs up.
I lay there, watching as he stands up and shoves his phone into his pocket. He tugs on his boots, and without an explanation, kisses my forehead before walking out.