4. Nash
4
Nash
Running Might Help
W e only get in about three miles before she quits on our run. I could go a few more laps, but I don’t want to make her walk back to the house alone.
It’s not far, and there’s a private walkway that leads to our row of houses, but something about her makes me want to look out for her.
Ha! Something about her, as if I don’t know that it’s everything about her, from the sadness in her eyes that she’s trying so hard to mask to her control issues to her quick wit to her pretty smile and her curvy body that makes it hard to keep my eyes on the sand in front of me.
If she hadn’t pointed out that jellyfish a few paces back, I’d be in pain right now. Fuck me. I came here to escape distractions. Why does the universe hate me?
“I’m done, too,” I say.
“You don’t have to stop because I am.”
“I know. But I just needed to go a few miles. I’m good.”
“Okay.”
The sun is starting to set, and the tide’s rolling out. It’s peaceful. There are a few other joggers and dog walkers out, but the sun seekers are long gone.
We slow down as we get closer to the path, barely jogging by the time we take the ramp to the crossover.
When we get back to the house, I take off my shoes and shake out the sand, clapping them together to get out as much as possible. When we step inside, I set them neatly by the door. I’ve antagonized her enough about the neat-freak stuff.
Honestly, I feel bad about not giving in on the plate-in-the-sink debate. I walk to the kitchen and find that she put it in the dishwasher after all.
“I would’ve done it.”
“I know,” she says. “When you got good and ready.”
“Well, yeah.” I smile, and she returns it. Gratitude rushes through me, knowing she’s not actually mad about it. “Do you want to watch a movie or sit up and talk or whatever?”
Smooth . I usually have social skills, I swear.
“I’m going to go up and shower. I’ll probably read for a while,” she says.
“Cool. I’ll probably do that, too. The shower part, anyway.”
“Not a reader?”
“I am, but I figured I’d be working nonstop while I was here, so I didn’t bring a book.”
“They have these things called ebooks now,” she teases.
“Yeah, but I need to save my concentration for work.”
“Got it.” She nods. “Well, I hope you sleep well.”
“You, too.” When she reaches the stairs, I say, “Hey, Cat.”
She looks back over her shoulder. “Yeah?”
“You probably already know this, but that guy who made you feel like you’re hard to live with? You’re better off without him.”
“I know. It just took me far too long to figure it out. But that’s actually the least of my worries right now.” She stops a few steps up and looks back at me again. “How’d you know it was a guy?”
“I’m psychic. Didn’t you know? Sweet dreams.”
“Thanks, Nash.”
She’s so hard one minute, and then she flashes that soft, pretty smile . . .
It would take another ten miles for me to be able to sleep now. Or twenty.
I’m torn on our bet. On the one hand, it would make things easier on me if I dropped hints until she guessed another thing about me so I’d have to leave. But on the other hand, I really want to reveal one of the other things that I know we have in common to ensure I win and we both get to stay.
With her here, I’m not going to get nearly enough work done, but leaving won’t take my mind off her, either. My productivity is screwed, regardless.
The pipes hum in the wall, letting me know she’s turned on the shower upstairs. Listening to the sound of the water while I take off my running clothes in my bathroom, I wonder if I’m imagining the tension between us, but there’ve been a few moments when I was pretty damn sure about it.
She looked at me earlier like . . . I shake my head to dislodge the thought. Nothing good can come from trying to guess what she was thinking. I step under the hot running water and let it flood my face. The shower fills with steam.
Stop thinking about her being naked upstairs in her own steamy shower. Shut that shit down right now. You don’t even know if she takes hot showers. Most women take hot showers, but she might be taking a cold one right now because . . . goddammit!
Jacking my cock with her showering practically right above me is almost painful. She’s so close, yet so far away. I think about the way her shorts clung to her firm thighs when she came downstairs for our run. How tight her ass looked when I let her take the lead headed up the ramp to come back to the house. The fullness of her tits. She’s petite, but she’s got curves. More curves than I expected, and my hands ached to map every dip and swell of her body the second I saw them.
What if she’d followed me in here and let me watch her peel off that sports bra and those clingy shorts . . . stepped into the shower and let the water cascade over her hard nipples, and then asked me to help her wash her tits, both of our hands slip-sliding through foamy suds . . . before she dropped to her knees and started sucking my dick like . . . oh, fuck yes.
The last spurt of my orgasm jets over my hand as she shuts off her shower, silencing the pipes and amplifying the sound of my ragged breath.
I stare at myself in the mirror as I drag the towel across my shoulders, knowing my shower release barely took the edge off my frustration. I’ve got it bad for Catalina Fairchild, and she’d be perfectly happy to send me off to a hotel for the rest of the week.
Maybe if I could stop being an arrogant asshole to her, she might want me to stay, but she agitates me in the best-worst way possible, like she’s doing it intentionally, but I know she’s not. It’s just her nature, and my nature is to react just to see her reaction, knowing it’s only going to agitate me further, and then it becomes a wicked cycle that creates this massive amount of sexual tension that feels like watching the last centimeter of the lit fuse on a Roman candle sizzle away in your hand even though you know you’re not supposed to be holding it, anticipating the launch and hoping it flies straight, but being ready to duck and run if it goes rogue, that anxious moment sparked with just enough adrenaline and fear to make the risk feel worth it.
But I literally can’t tell if she feels anything at all or if I’m just losing my damn mind over nothing.
Shit. I’m not going to sleep any time soon. I may as well work.
My headphones block out everything but the game, and to my surprise, I’m hyper-focused in a way I haven’t been in weeks. This is good. Finally, I feel almost like myself again.
I wake to the sound of gulls squawking outside the window. Rubbing my eyes, I struggle to figure out why they’re so loud. Whoa, I fell asleep in the living room?
My headphones are barely hanging onto my head, and I’m still leaning against the couch cushion I propped against the coffee table last night while I was working. My back feels stiff when I sit up and bend my legs. I rest my elbows on my knees while I look around and try to get my bearings.
There’s a game chair in my car that I should bring inside, but I had no problem making headway with my makeshift setup last night. I don’t know how late I worked, but I know I got a lot done. The last thing I remember is thinking I was probably back on track to meet my deadline, and then I got blown up.
Forcing myself to stand and stretch, I yawn like a barbarian. The work may have been good, but the sleep was not. Or not long enough, anyway. I feel like I just dozed off.
My gaze falls to the coffee table, and I realize all my trash is gone. I follow the smell of coffee into the kitchen. The window over the sink is open. That’s why the gulls are so damn loud. Cat cleaned up my mess and made coffee. I guess she’s airing the place out.
She saw me crashed in the floor, probably with my mouth hanging open. Great impression. I’m sure she’s really into me now.
Is she here? Our cars are parked under the house, so I can’t look out the window to see if hers is still here. It’s so quiet. I don’t hear her moving upstairs. Maybe she went back to bed?
I take a few sips of my coffee—it’s strong, perfect—and then I head up the stairs.
This house is recently renovated, and the padding under the new carpet is so thick it completely muffles the sound of my footsteps. She’s staying in the primary bedroom, which is at the far end of the hall, and I can tell the door to the room is open, but I still feel like I shouldn’t intrude.
As I get closer, I hear the seagulls and the waves, too, so I think she might have the sliding door to the balcony open as well. With slowed steps, I peek into the space. The bed’s made.
Knowing she’s up, I walk fully into the room.
I stop short when I see her sitting in a wide Adirondack chair on the balcony with her legs crossed and her computer balanced between them. Her fingers move methodically over the keyboard. The morning breeze blows through her hair, and steam rises from her coffee cup on the table next to her, making me think she hasn’t been out there long.
She’s in her own bubble, and I don’t want to disturb her. Stepping as quietly as possible, I leave the room and go back downstairs.
Is it weird that I want to cook her breakfast? I don’t even know this woman. All I know about her eating likes and dislikes is that she’s good with chicken on her salad. She might be one of those people who doesn’t even eat breakfast.
But it seems rude to cook for myself without asking her if she wants anything. How does she have my head so fucking scrambled?
Scrambled eggs. That’s a good choice. It’s easy to make extra. If she comes down, I’ll offer her some. If she doesn’t, I’ll eat it all like that was my intention to begin with.
If the entire week is going to be this stressful, I should go to a hotel for the sake of my sanity.
Cat doesn’t come down the stairs in search of scrambled eggs, so I polish them off. And I put my plate, utensils, and the skillet I used in the dishwasher. I even wipe down the stovetop and the counter. Energy to burn.
Good time for another run.