12. Indie
INDIE
Owen was out for the night with no intention of coming home until morning.
I invited Kiernan to our apartment for the evening, and he showed up with a bottle of wine in one hand and an overnight bag in the other.
I couldn’t help but laugh to myself. I’d been worried that maybe I had come on a bit too strong—not that he wasn’t who had pursued me in the first place—but once I’d given in, I had been all in.
I have struggled with balance my entire life. I am an all-or-nothing kind of gal, and there’s not much I can do to control it. That, coupled with the fact that I had so desperately wanted him from the get-go?
Yeah.
I was a goner.
Thankfully he seemed to feel the same.
“Sleeping over?” I picked at him playfully for being so presumptuous. He didn’t need to know how relieved I was about it.
“If you want me to, then yes…” He dropped the bag and pulled his shoes off. “If not, then that bag is full of snacks.”
“Okay, but what if I want you to, but I also want the snacks?”
He tried to maintain a serious expression, but his eyes betrayed him with the glint of suppressed laughter. “There are no snacks.”
Before I could respond, he bent and hinged my hips, slinging me over his shoulder and carrying me to the couch.
Plopping me down, he said, “I am here for a strictly platonic sleepover.”
I raised an eyebrow at him. “Platonic?”
Where he was concerned, I wasn’t sure that was a possibility for me.
“As much as I’d love to fuck your brains out here and now, I would also like to just spend time with you.”
“You could fuck my brains out and then spend time with me.”
He walked into the kitchen and rifled through my cabinets until he found two wine glasses, then came back into the living area and poured us each a glass. “Nope. Sorry. Tonight is for getting to know one another only.”
I appreciated the sentiment, and quietly made a plan to drive him to the edge of oblivion as I took my first sip of pinot noir.
“Fine,” I relented, sitting my glass on the coffee table. I uncrossed my legs and stood. “Make yourself at home, I’ll be right back.”
I walked to my room and over to my armoire, a wooden behemoth filled with a sea of dark-colored clothes. My hand glided over each piece until it landed on a familiar black dress.
It was my comfy dress—nothing that would raise any alarm bells as to what I was up to—but also one that I mostly only wore at home because of how short it was.
I pulled off my jeans and top under the guise of wanting to be more comfortable and said as much when I reentered the living room with my favorite blanket in tow.
His eyes drank me in, his pupils blown wide. But he didn’t say anything. Tension radiated from him just as I’d hoped it would.
“If we’re just having a cozy night in to chat, I feel less inclined to dress to impress.” I shrugged, sitting back down beside him.
“That is how you choose not to impress me? As opposed to jeans?”
“What, you don’t like my jeans?” I asked, mock offended. “This is comfortable.”
“If that’s your comfy around-the-house attire, I’m going to have to get Owen’s number so he can text me pictures.”
I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling.
This man was the least jealous human on planet Earth, but at the same time, it was refreshing to be with someone who didn’t question my relationship with Owen. I hoped they would become friends too.
I grabbed the remote and tossed it to him. “If we’re getting to know one another, let’s start with your taste in movies. You pick your favorite to watch first, then I’ll pick mine.”
He flicked the TV on, glaring at me out of the corner of his eye. “No Netflix and chill.”
“Only Netflix. No chill,” I promised.
“What’s your favorite food, color, scent, and book?” He scrolled through the options on the screen. “Favorite artist? Piece of art?”
“Spaghetti, black, leather, and Long Live by V.B. Lacey. My favorite artist is Rosa Bonheur. I like all of her big cats.” I spouted the answers. “You next.”
“Grilled cheese, also black, cedar, and I don’t think I have a favorite book. Van Gogh, obviously… and Irises.”
My heart skipped a beat.
“Wow. I don’t think I like you anymore,” I said jokingly. “How do you not have a favorite book?”
He shrugged. “Lend me your favorite,” he said, nodding toward my stuffed shelves next to the TV.
“Sir. You don’t just ask a book girlie to lend you a book. Those are my babies. I value them more than I value my own life.”
He placed his hand over his heart, still holding the remote, and raised his other as if swearing an oath. “I vow to protect it with everything that I am.”
“This is a serious commitment,” I leveled.
“One that I am prepared to take seriously.”
“Lucky for you, I have two copies.” I walked over to my shelf and pulled the extra one off. “I still want it back, though,” I said, handing it to him.
“Fantasy,” he noted, flipping through the pages.
“Yes. And The Dark God is Daddy. Take notes.”
He gave me an incredulous look, sat the book down on the end table, and finally settled on a movie that also happened to be one of my favorites.
I curled into his side and he wrapped his arm around my body, holding me close. His fingers grazed my bare thighs and he shifted uncomfortably, which I appreciated.
Despite the temptation, he stuck to his word. We had a fairly uneventful—platonic—evening, and about halfway through the second movie and the third bag of popcorn of the night, the wine I’d drank finally did me in and I fell asleep on the couch.
I was vaguely aware of him carrying me to bed, and thankful that I had opted to change into something comfy because I wouldn’t have wanted to wake up to undress if I hadn’t.
Only sociopaths can sleep in jeans.
Snuggled into bed, it took no time at all for me to drift back off.