23. Tatum
23
TATUM
H eadphones cover my ears as I grab the hide-a-key from its place and slip it into the front door lock. There’s no need. It’s unlocked. Which isn’t very promising. Why would it be unlocked? Unless… My lips bunch on one side, and I twist the handle, pushing the door open while trying not to look like I’m about two seconds from having a heart attack…or killing someone.
It’s been a week since our little hot tub rendezvous. Ever since, I’ve heard nothing but crickets and have never been happier. I’ve even managed to keep from searching a certain someone’s social media, which is a little bit of a miracle, though I’d never admit it out loud.
Keeping my head down, I glance around the foyer, then deeper into the kitchen. It’s empty. Maybe Pax forgot to lock up before he left? It’s not like he doesn’t already have a shit-ton of security. I lift the headphones off and let the black band hang around the back of my neck, listening for…something. I’m greeted with silence. Sweet, sweet silence. A relieved sigh slips out of me as I head up the stairs when the jarring clang of weights mingles with low grunts from the exercise room.
Shit.
Indecision courses through me, but I tiptoe toward the sound and reach for the door knob but hesitate. What if it’s an intruder? What if it’s Pax? Does it even matter? Honestly, I don’t even know. Neither option leaves me with any warm fuzzies. I pause and press my ear to the door. The same sound of metal on metal ceases, replaced with a rhythmic thud, thud mingled with low grunts. The punching bag. Whoever’s in there is using the punching bag. That has to be it. And, am I crazy, or is the heavy, stilted breathing…familiar, almost?
“Careful,” Pax growls. “If you keep squeezing me like that I’m gonna come.”
My walls tighten around him, my breath brushing against his parted lips. “If you keep hitting that spot, then I’m gonna come.”
Yup, I’d recognize that sound anywhere.
Definitely not a stranger.
I let my hand hover over the brass knob for a moment, wipe my palm against my jeans, and turn on my heel, striding toward the master bedroom without a backward glance. Why torture myself with a hot and sweaty Pax who’s still pissy at me for giving him the wrong number?
Okay, pissy’s probably a strong word. He wasn’t mad per se. More amused than anything else, but still. I’d rather not replay the night, thank you very much.
The real question is, why is Pax here when he’s literally never been here? To be fair, I don’t have a lot of experience to go off of. I’ve only cleaned this place two or three times. But it’s always been empty. Up until Roman. And today. Maybe he forgot I was coming. Maybe it’s a coincidence he’s still here. Maybe?—
“You’re late,” a low voice calls.
I peek over my shoulder, finding a shirtless, sexy as ever Pax leaning against the bedroom doorjamb with his arms folded. Sweat clings to his sandy blonde hair as he cocks his head, staring at me. Yup. The image is just as droolworthy as I imagined it would be. And even though I kind of hate him, my knees still go weak at the view. Seriously, this man is…he’s something else. When I recognize the bruises marring his right side and along his jaw, my brows knit. Where did those come from? Not that it matters. Besides, it’s none of my business.
But also, I’m pretty sure they weren’t there during the hot tub encounter. Were they?
It doesn’t matter , I remind myself.
Sucking my lips between my teeth, I force myself to look him in the eye. “Am I late?”
“Your boss said you’d be here by nine.”
“I thought you’re my boss,” I toss back at him.
Mirth toys at the edge of his mouth. “How’s the bra?”
Bra?
Caught off guard, I look down at my chest. “Excuse me?”
“The white one,” he clarifies. “From the hot tub.”
My eyes thin. “You remember, huh?”
His gaze trails over me, making me feel more exposed than the half-naked man himself. “How could I forget?”
Refusing to play his game, I lift my chin a little higher. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, after leaving me with the view of your ass.” He pushes off from the doorjamb and saunters closer. “You asked me to zip up your dress.”
“And?”
“And, if memory serves me right, red silk and white lace don’t exactly mix well when wet.”
He’s not wrong. My bra’s ruined. And it was my best one, too. Now it’s all blotchy and gross and…it’s all his fault.
As he approaches, I try not to smack the guy as I glare up at him. “Seems like you know an awful lot about laundry for a guy who has a maid.”
“Hey, I don’t make you do my laundry…yet.” He smirks. “Although, now that I think about it?—”
“Are you going to let me work or are you going to keep yapping at me all day?”
“You’re right. If I gave you access to my clothes, you’d probably dye them all out of spite.” He bends closer, towering over me. Hell, he’s so close, I can practically taste the arrogance wafting off him, and even though I should find it disgusting, it’s annoyingly…hot as hell. My attention drifts to his mouth, and I swear he’s going to kiss me before he sidesteps me, spins around, and walks backward toward a chair near the window. “And now that I think about it, I should probably stay so I can keep an eye on you so you won’t sabotage anything else.”
“Are you serious right now?” I huff. “Pretty sure if I wanted to destroy your stuff, I’d do it off the clock.”
He lowers himself into the cushioned chair as if it’s a throne.
“What are you doing?” I demand.
“Sitting.”
“Pax,” I warn. “You’re not supposed to be home.”
“Is there a problem with me being here? In my own house? My own room?”
He wants me to say yes. Wants me to admit that his close proximity makes me uncomfortable, and not in a creepy stalker way, but in an I know what it feels like to have you inside of me kind of way. The reminder only makes my mouth drier.
Leaning back, he laces his hands behind his head as he relaxes, giving me the perfect view of his bulging biceps and rippling abs. “Do I…distract you?” he prods.
My attention drops to his lips again before I roll my eyes and give him my back. “I’ll start in the bathroom.”
With an angry flick of my finger, I turn the bathroom light on. It’s connected to his suite and is as masculinely beautiful as its owner. Stupid Paxton. And his stupid face. And his stupid muscles, and his stupid hair, and his stupid comment about my laundry and his laundry, and?—
I stare at the shampoo bottle through the shower glass.
I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. This is a very bad idea. A really, truly bad idea that could most definitely get me fired if Pax decided to lose his sense of humor which I don’t exactly deserve anymore after everything we’ve been through, but...
I twist my ring on my middle finger.
Yup. This is happening.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I make my way back through the bedroom, ignoring Paxton’s, “Where are you going?” question as I skip down the stairs and out to Rory’s car. Now, where is that thing? I search the backseat, blindly reaching under the front seat until my fingers touch something small and cylindrical. There it is. The unopened green dye I found in the garbage a couple weeks ago at a different client’s house. I figured it might be a fun alternative to cutting bangs the next time I was spiraling, but screwing with Pax feels like an even better alternative. Bottle in hand, I go back inside, keeping my fist closed around the tube’s label so Pax can’t see it in case he decides to go all nosy detective on me. I wouldn’t put it past him.
“Where’d you go?” Paxton prods from the same chair as before.
“Had to get some stain remover for the shit spots on the toilet,” I announce. “Which is really gross, by the way.”
The man blanches. “I don’t have shit stains?—”
“No use denying it, boss. The proof is in the pudding, er, shit stain.” I give him a cheeky grin and reach for the edge of the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” With a click, I shut the bathroom door, then toss my keys onto the counter. If I’m doing this, I need to be quick. Opening the glass shower, I step inside and grab the shampoo bottle. I could always back down. Put the lid back on the shampoo and pretend this devious thought never sparked in the first place. Or, I could let it take hold and possibly get fired. But what a way to go. With a Cheshire grin, I pour the green dye into the bottle, give it a shake, and set it back in its place on the shelf like it never left.
See? Easy, peasy lemon squeezy. Maybe. I wonder what happens if dye gets into eyes? Will it dye his junk green, too, if he’s lazy and uses shampoo for all his body parts instead of switching from shampoo to soap or body wash like a normal person? Oh my hell, that would be hilarious. And honestly, for the view alone, I might break my ban on sleeping with the asshole just to see if it left a mark.
Or maybe it’ll push him over the edge, and he’ll call my employer, who will fire me, thus confirming Rory’s reason for hesitating when it came to being my reference for the job in the first place.
Yeah, this was definitely a bad idea.
I reach for the shampoo bottle again, when the tap tap against the door makes me flinch in surprise. The dye bottle slips from my fingers and tumbles to the black marble like a prop in a horror film. I’m so screwed. Biting back my shriek, I pick it up as the door squeaks open, and my heart jackhammers out of my chest.
“What are you doing?” Paxton asks.
I twist to face him, hiding the bottle behind my back. “Cleaning.”
“There are shit stains in the shower?” he challenges.
“Depends. Do you shit in the shower?”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s not a no,” I point out.
“I’m offended you think I’d shit in the shower, let alone leave stains on the toilet.” He crosses his arms, his biceps bulging. “Why are you being sneaky?”
“I think it’s offensive that you think I’m being sneaky.”
“Tatum,” he warns.
“I’m trying to clean, and you’re distracting me.” I wave him off. “Go away.”
“I would, but I figured I should probably shower before you clean. Don’t you think?”
Oh. The man makes a good point.
“That’s not a bad idea,” I concede.
With a grin that could melt the panties off a nun, Pax asks, “Did you just agree that I’m right about something?”
“Even a broken clock is right twice a day,” I return before wrinkling my nose. “No offense, but you kind of stink from your workout.”
Refusing to move from the doorway, he points out, “You know, saying no offense before saying something offensive doesn’t make it less offensive.”
I bat my lashes back at him. “Would you prefer I say, ‘Definitely take offense to this: you stink?’”
He doesn’t. He actually smells amazing, which makes zero sense since the guy’s still sweaty from his workout or…whatever. I part my lips and breathe through my mouth instead, determined to get out of here before I cave and fall to my knees to see if he tastes as good as I remember.
“Sure you don’t like your men dirty?” he asks. He’s closer now. Or maybe the bathroom’s shrinking. Considering the lack of oxygen thanks to the bastard’s pheromones tainting all logic, a shrinking bathroom is a real possibility. Hell, his broad shoulders practically take up every inch of the shower door.
What are we talking about again?
“Well, I’ll…leave you to it.” I start to move past him, pat his chest on instinct, then freeze.
Hello, pectorals.
And hello, deja vu. We’ve danced this tango before. It was at the concert. I shouldn't have touched him then, and I sure as hell shouldn’t be touching him now. I shouldn’t notice the muscles beneath his skin and the effort he’s clearly been putting in at the gym since the last time I touched him like this, either. Seeing it is one thing. Touching him? Feeling his heat, let alone being up close and personal with the fresh bruises I noticed earlier? This is bad. Very bad. I need to get out of here.
“Sure you don’t want to shower with me?” he questions.
I square my shoulders and drop my hand, propping it on my hip. “Sure you don’t want to be kneed in the balls?”
His soft chuckle fans across my cheeks as he moves aside, giving me more space to move past him. Then, I get the hell out of Dodge.