Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
This is what I get for snooping
LILA
Well, well, well. Here I am. Alone for an undetermined amount of time at Reed’s fancy-schmancy condo in downtown Tampa.
All by my lonesome inside the personal sanctuary of the man I’ve been an itty-bitty obsessed with since I was old enough to know I had a funny feeling down there whenever I looked at him.
Yep. Only me and the home of the man who just told me he’s in love with me.
That’s where I find myself. Me and my idle hands.
Whatever shall I do to pass the time?
I know what you’re thinking.
Take a look around, Lila. What could it hurt?
And you should be ashamed of yourself for suggesting something so dishonorable. Gasp. Snooping? Me?
I will do no such thing, no matter how insistent you are. Do you really think I’d stoop that low? I’m offended.
Ha ha ha ha.
Of course I’m gonna snoop. After all, I’m the same gal who grabbed his junk as a distraction to swipe his keys. There’s no chance of me wasting the opportunity for a glimpse inside Reed’s psyche.
If he had something to hide, he wouldn’t have brought me here, right?
I’m barely alone for three minutes before I start poking around. Bopping down the hall, I peek into his bedroom. When no booby traps are set off, I ease inside on my tiptoes.
Not sure why I’m attempting to be stealthy. My body must assume that if I’m silent, nobody will ever know I was here. Seems logical, if not delusional.
My first impression of Reed’s bedroom is precisely what I expected. Turns out that Adult Reed is just as obsessively tidy as Teenage Reed.
His bedding is a crisp shade of silver with black trim along the edges.
The queen bed is immaculately made with five-star hotel precision.
Four pillows, fluffed perfectly, devoid of wrinkles, and arranged symmetrically.
The only thing missing is a little mint.
I bet it’ll be there later. Surely, he has turndown service.
Considering the average room size, a queen makes more sense than a king. That’s practical Reed for you.
And if I ever happen to sleep here, I’d have no choice but to stay close to him all night. The bed size would be to blame. No harm, no foul.
There’s a lovely scent in the air. I pad from one side of the room to the other, led by my nosy nose.
His side table and dresser are made from distressed wood with a charcoal finish. Black hardware on the drawers. Not a single thing on the top of the dresser other than the mirror and a baby blue candle without a lid. There’s no label on it, so I take a whiff. My eyes roll to the back of my head.
Mmm. Coconut oil and pineapple with a hint of sunscreen. The perfect beachy Florida scent.
My fingernails tap rhythmically on the hardwood as I eye the drawers with bated breath.
Should I have a little peek?
Nah. That’s crossing a line. It’s one thing to look at what’s visible in his room but another to go digging.
Besides, I wouldn’t like him rooting around my drawers if the tables were turned. Like most women, what’s in my bedside table is between me and the Lord.
Kenzie and I vowed that if one of us dies unexpectedly, the other will empty out their bedside drawer and delete their Kindle history. Some secrets you take to the grave.
Huh. I wonder if I can still trust Kenzie to keep her vow in light of what I learned about her today?
Doubtful.
Nonetheless, I won’t be looking inside Reed’s drawers.
I won’t.
I’m better than that.
Then again, he could have locked the bedroom door if he was concerned about privacy. Or brought me somewhere else instead of his sanctuary.
I’ve mastered the fine art of lying to myself like the Renaissance artists mastered painting naked ladies. Just call me the Michelangelo of Delusion.
It takes all my willpower, but I eventually resist the temptation to open the drawers.
After a mental pat on the back, I sweep my gaze back toward the bed. I nibble my lip as I envision what Reed must look like when he wakes up in this bed. Hair a mess, sleepy eyes, and a bare chest exposing his tattoos. I wonder if he sleeps in the nude. Since it’s my fantasy, I’ll assume so.
His comforter looks mega plush, beckoning me closer. I need to see if it’s as soft as it looks.
For some dumb reason, I glance over my shoulder before touching the comforter. First the tiptoes and now this? Do I think Reed was fibbing about going to work so he could catch me snooping? Absurd.
My palm caresses the comforter, heading toward the top where the sheets are folded over like they do in hotels. Oh, wow. They’re even more decadent than they look. Quite possibly the silkiest fabric ever to graze my skin.
Who knew Reed had such good taste in linens?
An hour ago, if I had to guess what type of bedding he had, I’d have confidently said utilitarian, over-starched cotton sheets with a scratchy comforter.
Probably in beige. I would have never guessed he’d have this indulgent fifty-thousand thread count masterpiece that could bring a tear to Martha Stewart’s eye.
Not bothering to attempt resisting this temptation, I lower my rump to the bed. And then a little bounce to test out the durability of the springs.
Dang.
This mattress cradles my tush like a lover's caress. Too bad Reed’s at work instead of ravaging me on it.
Truth be told, I don’t think I even need him to achieve orgasm. The mere idea of rolling around naked in these sheets might do the trick. My nipples stiffen like I’ve walked into a cooler without a bra.
I’ve lost it.
My recent stress and today’s big news have clearly taken their toll on me.
Blinking free of the linen-induced horniness, I creep toward his closet. Nobody could fault me for having a quick look-see. After all, it’s important to know your surroundings.
The closet is more of Reed’s retentiveness on full display. An array of suits, arranged by color. Beside it, casual clothing is grouped in an almost obnoxious level of organization that makes my brain hurt.
I assumed FBI agents led busy lives. However, this agent clearly has too much time on his hands if he can be this meticulous about this.
As horny as the bed made me, this closet is making me as dry as the Sahara.
Time to move on. I should check out his book collection. Reed’s an intelligent man; I wonder what he reads.
Heh heh. Reed reads.
I crack myself up, which is coming in handy right now since I’ve never been good at being alone.
When I walk into his office, my first impression is that there’s a different vibe in here. There’s something inherently cozy about this space. It’s less barren and has more character. I could see myself spending hours in here.
The walls are painted in a rich burgundy and adorned by various art pieces, all with a nature theme that warms my soul.
There’s a velvet forest-green chaise lounge in the corner with a plush throw blanket draped over it. A tall lamp with a brass finish is perched behind the chaise. I bet it gives the perfect amount of light for long hours engrossed in a novel.
Once I pick a book, that’s where I’ll be until Reed gets home.
A fancy wooden rolltop desk stands against the far wall. Four built-in drawers stretch to the floor on each side of the desk. Ornate drawer hardware catches my eye, beckoning me over.
I let my hands skim across the desk’s polished wood, noting the intricate carvings. It’s even more impressive up close. I would have pegged Reed for something more contemporary than an antique like this. Again, he’s full of surprises.
His bedroom and office are strikingly divergent. Almost as if two different men decorated them. One who is soft and in touch with his feelings, and the other is far colder or shut off.
While I’m fiddling with the metal knob at the base of the desk’s curved cove, nostalgia cascades over me. The memories lap at my mind in gentle waves, and my lips rise into an easy smile.
Our aunt had a desk like this. Not the same one, but it was similar.
She kept all her birding journals, guides, and books inside it.
I recall rolling the slats to open the desk, then lowering it again.
The sound of the cover clicking along the track was captivating to my little ears.
Over and over, up and down, I rolled the top like it was the most entertaining thing in the world.
My aunt used a lemon-scented polish on the desk. I inhale as if I could smell it now. And I almost do.
Pleasant memories of my childhood dance in my mind’s eye. It was a time before it all went horribly wrong. I was a happy, carefree child. Loved. Whole.
Like always, Zara was beside me, beaming at me with radiance only she’s ever possessed. The two of us spoke a language nobody else understood. We didn’t even need words most of the time.
She was effervescent, drawing everyone to her.
I was the steady one, calm and reserved.
Not Zara, though. To this day, I’ve never met anyone as bubbly and filled with joy as her.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think she knew her life would be cut short.
So she spent every second happy and bright, never wasting a breath on melancholy.
Zara was the sunshine that I wasn’t. When she died, I tried to be more like her. At first, it was to feel closer to her. Then I hoped it would please my parents. Or make them miss her less.
And love me more.
I never succeeded, though.
No matter how hard I tried. And man, I tried. For years. Decades even.
Truth be told, I’m still trying.
And failing. At least on the inside.
Flung back to the present, I flinch, jumping backward from a sudden jarring slam of the lid of the rolltop desk.
Oops.
While lost in my thoughts, I didn’t realize I was doing the open-close-clicky-thing with Reed’s desk until the weight of the slats yanked it out of my hands.
And now it’s open.
Well . . . since the desk is open, I should see what Reed’s got in here. It would be rude not to.