Chapter 15 #2
“I don’t think I would have come up with it.” I shrug. “Honestly, based on what I’m seeing, and the other boxes we received, I don’t know how much you’re going to need me.”
“But you’re way faster at chopping things than I am.”
“That will come with experience.”
Diego’s phone chimes with a video call, and he’s back to his full wattage. “It’s my family!”
“Take it! Alistair and I will clean up,” I say, rousing a muffled “Huh?” from Alistair.
Diego nods and takes in a long breath. “Thank you, Ellie. This means a lot to me. I don’t know if I would have ever taken them up on the offer if you weren’t helping me to start.”
“I’m happy to. Now, go! Be celebrated!”
He grins, letting out an excited eep! before taking off for his room. When he answers the call, the cheering is so loud and varied, it sounds like a soccer game is on the other side of line. His door closes, but I can still make out the muffled sound of his voice.
I smile again, but it drops as I recall Diego’s reaction when Ian was mentioned. Grant said that his brother’s been private since his injury, but after looking him up the other night, he’s obviously taking on other opportunities. So, why not make an appearance if it could give Diego a boost?
“Ian wasn’t interested.” That’s what Diego said when he first told me about Built Box. I’m not mad, just disappointed. I’d thought—hoped?—that Ian would show more care.
Pairing Ian with the word care launches me straight back to yesterday—not that I’ve strayed too far from the memory since.
Alistair never mentioned the intimate scene he’d interrupted; whether that was a courtesy, cluelessness, or adherence to the Dawghouse’s no-pry policy, I don’t know.
But the remainder of the ride was endured in painful silence, broken by the last few dings of the elevator and Alistair’s muttered plans to Mushu about the plant’s upcoming placement in his room.
When the doors opened for the final time, we were bombarded, Grant and Diego crowing about their victory and the money they were owed, and Heather and Mark peppering me with questions that all amounted to Did Cole die when he saw Ian? Please say yes!
After my chair and I had been delivered to my car, Ian had taken Grant and Alistair to the Dawghouse with the last truckload.
This left me barefoot in the parking garage with my friends, who were more interested in relaying the “moment of cinema” that was Ian’s reaction to hearing that Cole had arrived (the wordless shirt removal had been vivid, but the way he’d “flown” up the stairs had been a particular standout to Mark, after his own scramble) than helping me load my damn chair, and Diego, whose presence prevented me from revealing what had happened in the elevator.
In the time it took to find my shoes, rearrange the contents of the Prius to accommodate my chair, and get home, Ian was gone.
But not before he’d assembled my bed—complete, of course, with “his” mattress.
Such care. Such sexy, sexy care.
A shiver creeps up my spine, and I roll out my shoulders to suppress it.
No doubt, it’s a turn-on because I’ve been denied basic consideration for so long.
I almost cried when the guys offered me cheese the night I showed up, and a week later, I’m hot and bothered because a man did me the kindness of spending five minutes with a drill.
After devoting most of his afternoon to helping me move.
And parading his shirtless perfection in front of my ex.
And waiting for my okay to proceed with said parading, which required a scorching, prolonged exchange of glances…
The storm clouds, heavy with concern. That extra beat he waited to make sure I was okay before the cheeky half smile.
The toned v that vanished into the waistband of his shorts, which I’d registered before the glances but is just a really compelling memory, so I’m adding it to the exchange.
Along with his pectorals. And the swell of his biceps. And the fuzz.
And the kiss.
I’ve been trying to convince myself that it was just a friendly physical expression of appreciation, but not even a seasoned self-deluder like myself is going to pull that off. We were going back for more when Alistair showed up, and we both know it; I felt his tongue.
Heat blossoms across my chest, a competing flare of warmth teasing below my waistband, piggybacked by no small amount of anxiety at the knowledge that I’m going to be seeing him again tomorrow.
What is that going to look like? Another laugh-it-off exchange is too much to hope for, and while there’s a good chance we’ll just pretend it never happened, part of me doesn’t want to.
And by that I mean my mouth parts. And my pants parts.
I grit my teeth, shifting my hips. I need to find some real flaws in that man, stat; camera shyness and an aversion to touch-up paint are not going to do it.
Which is alarming in its own right! In any other man, the latter would be an immediate turn-off.
He’s literally overtaken my sense of order. Inconceivable.
I’m still frowning when I look up and see Alistair topping off his bowl with another helping of meatballs.
When he sees me watching, he looks back at the heaping pile, then to me, and rolls his eyes.
“Whatever. These bowls are rad, and I feel fancy as hell when I eat out of them.” When I don’t say anything (What is there to say?
The fancy factor is why I started collecting them in the first place), he lets out a whine, shoulders sagging. “Dude. I’ll wash it when I’m done!”
“Alistair,” I assure him, crossing the room for a bowl for myself, “I didn’t doubt you for a second.”