3. Avery
3
AVERY
Do I have better things to do than tiptoe down the hall toward Micah’s room? Yes, yes I do. Like the three different photoshoots worth of pictures to edit. Or the four calls I need to return about scheduling future work. Then there’s the pitiful website that not only needs an updated portfolio but also a complete overhaul.
But I’m so damn tired that the only priority I have right now is a nice long nap.
As soon as I’ve successfully snagged one of Micah’s t-shirts, that’s exactly what I plan to do.
The discovery was accidental. A couple weeks ago, one of his shirts ended up in my load of clean laundry. It looked so damn comfortable that I wore it to bed that night.
It was magical.
Exhaustion heavy from several nights of tossing and turning with worry, the ultra-soft cotton clung to me like a lover’s hands. I slid between the sheets of my bed, let go of my money troubles, and finally slept like a baby.
The next night, I wore my own pajamas and slept like dog shit.
Which is why I’ve secretly been sleeping in one of his shirts every night since. I’m careful to pilfer no more than one at a time, replacing each one in his closet after a wash, hoping he won’t notice them missing.
I stupidly added the last t-shirt I stole to his load of laundry this morning before I left for my bakery shift.
Could I take a half decent nap without one of his shirts? Probably. I mean that mound of bread dough wasn’t exactly cozy. But I have too much work to do to chance shitty sleep, even for an hour.
A few feet from Micah’s door, I hear the familiar groan of the shower nob turning. Though it’s in dire need of some WD-40, I’m grateful he hasn’t gotten around to addressing it yet. I wait a couple of extra minutes in the hall, until I hear water splashing against the shower floor, and slip into his bedroom.
Closing his door quietly behind me, my gaze lands on a pair of jeans piled on the floor. My traitorous body chooses that moment to overheat. Electricity hums, causing tingles in all the naughtiest places.
“It’s a pair of fucking jeans,” I whisper-scold myself. Until Declan moved out, I swear I had the ability to ignore Micah’s utter hotness in a pair of jeans slung low on his hips. I shake away the wicked thoughts trying their best to form and focus on the path to the small walk-in closet.
This inconvenient crush will pass.
It has to.
Sleeping with your best guy friend has consequences. I’ve personally watched it dismantle and destroy a close friendship. I had a front row seat to the destruction, and I don’t care to experience it for myself. I refuse to lose Micah because I couldn’t keep from throwing myself at him in a weak moment of lusty curiosity.
Whether he’d actually ravage me or just be thoroughly mortified at the very idea is a question I don’t want the answer to. It’s safer this way. Staying friends. Keeping this stupid crush to myself until it fades to the nothingness it really is.
I slip inside Micah’s closet, close the door ninety percent of the way, and search the wall of cube shelves filled with t-shirts. After the photoshoot yesterday, I’m feeling particularly fond of one of his Daisy Hills Volunteer Firefighter options. Wetness pools between my legs as I remember the sexy way he posed for the camera. As though it came naturally to him.
Then add Henry into the mix…
A whimper escapes my throat. “Time to go,” I whisper mumble to myself. Once I’m in the safety of my room with the door locked, I’ll strip down to nothing but this shirt and find some release for the coiling tension building in my core.
The sinking ship like moan echoes from Micah’s shower.
Shit !
I mean to dart out the closet and run away, but my feet get tangled in a pile of laundry and I fall onto my knees inside his closet. Thankfully, it’s carpeted, muffling the worst of my crash to the floor.
By the time I right myself, Micah struts into his room—butt-ass naked.
I gulp a swallow, overcome by a wave of powerful lust. I should step away from the crack in the door and hide. But I can’t stop staring at the water droplets glistening from his perfectly tanned, perfectly sculpted skin. I yearn to lick them away one by one. I’d start with that tattoo of a phoenix on his left shoulder and slowly lick my way down to that tight ass.
Micah stills, his back to me.
I hold my breath. Shit, did I make a sound? Maybe that silent whimper of want wasn’t only in my head.
“Hello?”
I slowly back away from the crack in the door and tiptoe to hide behind it.
The floor creaks. Damn the old house.
The second the door flies open, I toss the t-shirt I’ve pilfered over my head. As though it’ll clear me of any guilt of having stared at his naked backside.
“Avery?”
“Hey.” Because my head is covered, I give him a wave. Pathetic .
“What are you doing in my closet?” he asks, yanking the t-shirt off my face.
Eyes up! “One of your t-shirts was in my laundry,” I lie, feeling the wobbliness of each word as it escapes my throat. I notice, with some relief and a tiny shred of disappointment, that there’s now a towel wrapped around his waist. “I was putting it away. In your closet.”
“Oh, thanks,” he says, that easy, lopsided grin making my nipples pebble.
His mouth is much too close in this tight closet. I could reach my hand to the back of his neck and pull him down—Fuck, I need to get the hell out of here.
“Hey, you busy?”
“Not really.” The lie leaves my lips before I can pull it back. I have hours upon hours of work beckoning me. I am a lot of things right now…hot, bothered, aching… but not busy isn’t one of them. “What’s up?”
“I have a surprise for you.”
“Do I get to see the second floor?”
“No, it’s not done yet.” He drops a hand to my shoulder, and my skin ignites through the fabric of my cotton shirt. “C’mon. Go grab your camera bag.” He urges me forward, and I stumble over the same pile of laundry. I throw my palm out to avoid smacking my face into the doorjamb. But Micah’s quicker. He yanks me into his arms, shielding my face.
My lips come into direct contact with one of those pesky water droplets on his pec, and it takes all my willpower to keep my tongue inside my mouth.
“Sorry about that,” he says, as though it’s his fault for me trespassing in his closet.
I shrug free of his embrace and hurry toward the door. Though the amount of work I have to do is piling high, I’m no longer tired. With liquid heat coursing through all my veins, I’m wide awake. And since I failed to pilfer a new t-shirt, I decide to trade my nap for a surprise I can’t seem to resist. “I’ll grab my camera bag.”
“Avery?”
“Hmm?”
“I need to get dressed,” he says, holding the towel at his hips. Drawing my attention to those washboard abs. “Can I have some privacy, please?”
“Right. Bye!” I practically sprint out the door and to my room.
I think this pesky little crush is going to be more trouble than I bargained.
A whole helluva lot more trouble.