Chapter 27
Chapter
When George invites me to his home, I agree because all my horny brain can think of is getting him alone in a place that isn’t owned by BBN. When we’re in our respective cars, he texts me his address, and I gape at the familiar street.
Me: You live in the same building as Shawn???
George: Yeah
Me: You could’ve just told me! I don’t need to GPS this
George: I wanted to see how many exclamation points you’d use when you found out
George: Shawn would’ve had ten minimum
Me: I’m not my brother, sir. I’m much more poised. Mature. Demure even.
George: And way sexier
I put my phone down after that because it’s probably hazardous to drive while horny. I cannot afford to get a speeding ticket because of my libido.
Still, the fact that I know where I’m going gives my mind leave to swirl through this new info.
Now that elevator incident from years ago makes sense.
When George jumped out just after I got in to head up to Shawn’s place, I expected him to show up a few minutes after me.
He never did, so I figured the guy abandoned the building altogether. One more indicator that he hated me.
But I guess he was just going back to his place.
Oh god, what if I run into Shawn while I’m on my way to…
Well, I’m not sure what George and I are about to do, but it definitely won’t be family friendly. I scan the parking garage for signs of my brother as I pull into a spot but only catch sight of a distractingly handsome pilot waiting by the elevator.
He wears a smug grin as I jog to his side.
“I can’t believe you live here.” I knock my shoulder against his, and before I step away, he wraps an arm around me, pulling me flush to his side.
“It’s a nice building. My best friend lives here. And there’s this gorgeous girl who shows up sometimes.” He presses a kiss to the top of my head as the metal doors slide open. With him so close, I get a delicious whiff of his cologne.
My teeth dig into the inside of my cheek as I try to fight off a smile.
George guides me into the elevator and pushes a button that won’t take us all the way to Shawn’s penthouse. “So, you left after book club? Just popped down a few floors?”
“No. I slept on the couch.”
From what I recall in my tipsy memory of that night, I fell asleep on the couch. But I woke up in the bed.
“Did you carry me to the guest room?”
George grunts what sounds like a yes.
A suspicion taps at the back of my mind.
“When we left, you came down to the parking garage with me.” Where we encountered my shit stain of a father.
But before that bucket of frigid water was dumped on our pleasant exchange, I figured George was on his way home.
“I thought you were heading out. Was there a reason you didn’t go back to your place? ”
“I did go back to my place.”
“You did?”
The doors open and George drops his arm but only so he can scoop up my hand to guide me down the hall. “Yeah. I just wanted to hang out with you longer.”
My entire body threatens to melt.
“George Bunsen.” I try to keep my voice lighthearted to cover up how much what he said affected me. “I think you have a crush. On me.”
He smirks over his shoulder while unlocking what I assume is the door to his place. “If you only think I have a crush on you, Beth Lund-berg, then I need to try harder.”
Part of me wants to dig into how George defines “harder,” while another part focuses on his strong grip turning the knob that will reveal where he lives his life.
What will the bachelor pad look like?
He pulls open the door and draws me inside.
“Should I take my shoes off?” I pause just inside the threshold.
“Please. And you’ll want to put them in the closet.” He points to a closed door in the short entry hallway.
I hum an understanding noise as I toe off my footwear. “Is someone a neat freak?”
“Someone doesn’t want spiders in his shoes.” George says this with a straight face.
I pause with my hand on the closet doorknob.
“Is your condo infested with spiders?” Maybe I don’t want to jump his bones here.
“No.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “In fact, spiders don’t last long here. Jet takes care of them.”
“And Jet is your…cleaning person?” George is rich, and rich people tend to have those.
“Jet is my cat roommate.”
Ah, yes. That makes more sense. I tuck my five-dollar slip-ons in his hallway closet beside a collection of polished shoes. “Was the addition of ‘roommate’ necessary? You couldn’t just say that he’s your cat?”
I totally forgot about that detail he shared while eating at the diner with Marge. George is a cat dad.
“First off”—George sets his hands on my waist but only to nudge me to the side so he can put his shoes away, too—“Jet identifies as female. And secondly, I’m not the one who originally adopted Jet. And she makes sure I know that.”
Why would George be living with someone else’s pet?
“Is she your ex’s cat?” He’s divorced. Maybe she got the house, and he got the cat?
“No. Jet was my mom’s.”
Oh. Oh. Well, what do you even say to that?
“And your feline sibling is not a fan of yours?” That’s probably not what I should have said, but I couldn’t think of any other words that might’ve fit the situation.
Luckily, George’s first response is to snort.
“Jet has never been a fan of me. Hence why she often leaves spiders in my shoes.” George settles his hand on my lower back, guiding me forward.
“Live ones?” I press.
“Dead ones. Or at least they’re dead after my foot squashes them when I put my shoe on.” His lips curl with a grimace. “I’ve had to throw away at least five pairs of socks because I found spider guts smashed into them at the end of the day.”
“And you think this means that Jet does not like you?”
One of his brows ticks up. “Is there another way I should take it?”
I shrug. “Honestly, a dead spider sounds like a gift when given by a cat. It could be a good luck charm. Her version of saying ‘have a safe flight.’ Maybe it’s a sign of affection.”
“I doubt that.” But I spy a smile trying to claim his stern mouth.
“You need to be more open-minded to the various ways creatures show affection.” With the heat of George’s hand soaking through my shirt, I find myself more focused on his touch rather than the space around us.
“Do you think affection also comes in the form of growls and hisses whenever I make eye contact?”
“Some people, and some felines, don’t like eye contact.” I blink up at him. “Maybe you should stop staring intensely at your sister.”
George gives me a deadpan stare.
I hiss at him.
He cracks a smile.
I want to lick his mouth, but I know that once I start, I won’t stop. Best to get my curiosity out of the way first. So, I slip free of his hold and shoo him forward.
“I want to look at all of your stuff and judge you,” I announce.
“Silently, or out loud?”
“Which would you prefer?”
“Please, share your insights.” George leads me into a high-ceilinged, open-floor-plan space and leans against the granite counter in his kitchen. The layout is similar to Shawn’s place, but this condo is smaller. Although I still wouldn’t call it small. George waves for me to start my snooping.
I point at a giant wooden propeller decoratively hanging on the dark green wall. “Someone is obsessed with airplanes.”
“You’re jealous and contemplating how you can steal it.”
“Damn it,” I mutter while sauntering up to a bookshelf beneath the prop. “Don’t read my mind, you creep.”
I smile when I realize we have a lot of the same books, although the pilot autobiographies on my shelf are worn and from secondhand stores, while his are shiny new with minimal creases in the spine. Eagerly, I slip a few I haven’t gotten to off the shelf.
“I’m borrowing these.”
“Borrowing means giving them back at some point.”
I pout. “Fine.”
“You can write in them, though. If you want.”
I glance toward George, surprised to see a light flush high on his cheeks. His bicep flexes as he scratches the back of his neck.
“I mainly write in book club books.”
“I know.” He clears his throat. “I like your notes.”
“You want to know if I’d smash or pass?”
He barks a laugh. “Sure. And any other thoughts you have.”
My mind brings up a memory of Shawn’s shelf, with all the books I’ve notated. “I’m cynical.”
The thought came out of my mouth the same moment it popped into my mind. But it’s the truth. Compare my notes to Shawn’s, and mine are always a touch darker. Less hopeful. More judgmental.
Shawn will say a character is adventurous.
I’ll say they’re reckless.
He’ll claim a character is curious.
I’ll retort that they’re destructive.
Shawn will call a passage romantic.
I’ll refute that making out in a cave while they’re running from the bad guys is a poor use of their precious escape time and maybe they deserve to get caught and fed to sharks.
Hence our constant wars.
George’s grin is slow and takes over his handsome face in an unfairly sexy curve. “You always act so sweet in person. I like reading your cynicism.”
His words slip past a protective shell I wasn’t even aware I’d formed around my heart. George has read my notes. He knows the people-pleaser version of me is a curtain I draw over a broken, jagged window of skepticism and distrust.
And he likes it.
“You’re a masochist, aren’t you?” I wave a scolding finger at him, trying to tease my way away from the heady weight of being accepted for myself. “Rich-boy weirdo.”
He grumbles a pleased noise. “Yeah, baby. Just like that.”
My mouth falls open, and he lets out another boom of a laugh.
Then a black fuzzy blur streaks through the room, ricocheting off the wall, then the couch, finally landing with a thunk on the wide windowsill. There, the newcomer proceeds to meow loudly and on repeat.
“Ah. Jet.” I face the cat and offer a nod of respect. “We meet at last.”
The short-haired feline goes still, then she launches off her perch and scrambles across the hardwood floor as if chased by a hellhound. Even after she disappears from sight, yowls sound from deeper in the condo.