11. Where Am I?
What the hell was I thinking? Inviting Stuart to my house. Obviously, I wasn’t in my right mind. But nobody can blame me, what with him being all adorable and chivalrous. Seeing him interact with his sister, how he deferred to her during most of the interview, and the way they teased each other. He’s so soft for people—it’s intriguing.
He has this innate talent of putting people at ease, and maybe that’s why Sylvie hired him to be the face of The Base. All I know is that for some unfathomable reason I didn’t want our time together to end. When did Stuart go from mildly annoying eager coworker to fascinatingly attractive crush?
I wait in my driveway for Stuart to pull up behind me in his car. My house isn’t much to look at. I signed the lease just after starting at The Base a few months ago, so it doesn’t quite feel like home yet.
Stuart startles me out of my thoughts when he opens my car door and steps aside like he’s a chauffeur. Huh, I wonder what he’d look like in a black suit.
“Hey.” Why are words so hard right now? It’s just Stuart. The guy I kissed on New Year’s who shows up in my dreams at random moments. No big deal.
“Hey.” He aims his smile at me, and I blink. “Nice place.” Stuart nods at the front of the house where I recently strung some year-round fairy lights.
“Thanks.” The house is a pale yellow with white trim. Cute, but generic. I look down at my black jeans and thick-soled boots and consider asking the landlord to paint the trim black.
Stuart slips his shoes off just inside the front door. “You don’t need to do that if you don’t want to.”
“Habit. It was a heavily enforced rule in my house growing up. You should’ve seen the pile of shoes by the front door. Drove my mom nuts, but it was her own fault because it was her rule.” It all comes out in a rush. Is he nervous?
There’s an awkward moment where he aims his gaze down to his socked feet—dark purple with tacos and dolphins. Of course.
“Nice socks.” My chest hurts from holding back my laugh.
“Noticed those, did you?”
“Hard not to. Did you steal them off a toddler?” I immediately want to take it back. I love Stuart’s socks, and I still couldn’t restrain the snide comment. I want to do better. I need to do better.
“I had to fight my sister Michelle for them at our Christmas pile-on.”
I nod towards the kitchen. “Let me heat up the food and then you can tell me what the fuck a Christmas pile-on is.”
“Can I help with anything?”
“Nope.” I reach into the fridge to grab the plastic container of leftovers, transfer it to a couple of bowls and pop them in the microwave. “Want a beer? Water? Juice?”
“Is that a crack about how I’m closer to toddlerhood than you are?” I freeze, not knowing if I just pissed him off. When I turn to look at him, his eyes are twinkling.
“You really like to give people shit, don’t you?”
“It’s a survival mechanism. What kind of beer do you have?”
“Stout, pilsner, or IPA” His eyes light up and he points to a bottle of stout. “But no Christmas pile-on story, no beer. Pay up.”
“Okay, but you’re going to think my family’s weird.” I dangle a bottle in front of him, trying to get the story rolling. “There’s a theory among my siblings that our parents might be the tiniest bit sadistic. Once we were all grown my parents changed up the gift giving rules. We each have to buy one gift, not knowing who’s going to get it. My parents then buy six gifts, one for each of us. Then on Christmas morning the twelve gifts get thrown into one big pile on the living room floor, my mom blows a whistle, and we all dive for whatever we can grab. No more than two per kid.”
My bottle is paused on its way to my lips. “You’re joking. That can’t be real.”
He points to his socks. “These came with a bloody nose and an elbow to the ribs.”
I shake my head. “I’m almost sorry I asked. Your family…”
“Yeah, they’re great. I know.”
Stuart leans on the counter separating my tiny kitchen from my tiny living room, his hands clasped together and his suspenders digging into his shoulders.
“Why do you wear those?” I nod at the straps.
“You mean other than to look like a hipster cosplaying as an old-timey lumberjack?”
“You said it, not me.” I take another sip of beer.
“They’re sexier than a belt, obviously.” He waggles his eyebrows and I almost choke. He grins like he just scored a point. “My grandpa used to wear suspenders, and I wanted to be just like him when I was a kid. So I begged and begged my parents to get me some, and then I became the coolest kid on the playground. Nobody ever bullied me about it. Nope.” His eyebrow lifts with his wry smile. “In all seriousness, they became so much a part of my persona that I wouldn’t know what to do without them now.”
The smile that cracks across my face is almost painful. I bite my lip trying to stop it, but it’s no use. I cover my face with my hands as my shoulders shake with laughter.
“You’re picturing little kid Stuart wearing suspenders, aren’t you?” I peek out of my fingers at him. He’s blushing.
“I can’t help it. You must’ve been so stinking adorable.” It comes out as a shout. “Are there pictures?”
“I’m secure enough in myself to agree that I was very, very adorable. And you’d have to meet my parents if you want to get your hands on photographic proof.”
I turn around to retrieve the food from the microwave, partly because I’m starving and partly to hide my reaction to the idea of meeting Stuart’s parents. “Might be worth it.”
I open the utensils drawer. “Do you want a fork, spoon, spork, or chopsticks?” I hear a quick inhale behind me.
“You have sporks?” The excitement in his voice makes me smile. It’s getting harder and harder to fight it.
“Of course I have sporks—all the best food requires them. It’s science.” Stuart places a hand over his heart and sighs.
“I think I’m in love.” He says it to the ceiling like he’s talking to the universe instead of directly to me. That doesn’t stop the wild, heavy knocking inside my chest or the coked-up butterflies in my stomach.
We endup eating on the couch in front of the television, watching YouTube videos of people crushing things with hydraulic presses. It’s weirdly soothing. I turn to Stuart.
“If you had a hydraulic press, what’s the first thing you’d crush?” I’m genuinely curious. Stuart scrunches his face up in thought, and I add it to the tally of strangely sexy things he does.
“I’m torn between my student debt or the patriarchy. You?” He looks so serious that I chuff out a laugh, covering my mouth so rice doesn’t go flying. His eyes glimmer when he catches me laughing.
“Nothing so lofty. I’d probably go the petty route. If I had a press big enough it would be my ex’s car. Or his golf clubs.”
“Nice.” Stuart leans over to give me a fist bump. “He deserves it, and I’d be selling tickets to the spectators.”
“Thanks for stepping in the other day at the diner. You made the whole thing a little less humiliating.”
Stuart sets his bowl on the coffee table and turns fully to face me. “He’s the dick who should be humiliated. What kind of person cheats on their significant other? And he earns extra stupid points because you’re...you. He’s an idiot for not realizing what he had.”
He holds my gaze for more beats than what should be comfortable, but I can’t look away. I fight the tingle in my nose and the lump forming in my throat. Months ago I vowed never to cry over the douche again, but Stuart’s sweetness unlocks something soft and squishy just beneath my skin.
“Yep, okay.” I clear my throat and turn back to the television. In the next video they’re crushing a bowling ball.
My mouth is dry and there’s a weight on my chest. This isn’t my bedroom—there’s no water stain on the popcorn ceiling. Shit, there’s no popcorn ceiling at all. I try to raise my arm to rub my eyes, but it’s stuck under something soft and warm. Something that smells like midnight flowers and snores like the cutest little freight train. Meredith.
We must’ve fallen asleep on her couch. Sunlight peaks through the curtains, turning her black hair almost blue. I fight the temptation to run my hand through it and wake her up by pressing my lips to her forehead. She’d probably stab me.
She stirs but doesn’t wake, and I’m suddenly very aware of how hard my cock is. She shifts and the situation turns dire. All her soft curves press me down into the couch, and her warm breath ghosts across my neck and chin. My right hand is tucked in the back pocket of her jeans, and my left is trapped under her and numb.
I don’t know what my right hand was thinking in the middle of the night, but I have to extract it from Meredith’s back pocket without waking her up or accidentally giving her ass a squish. She stirs again, her eyes blinking open as she lifts her head off my chest. I quickly pull my hand out of her pocket and rub it through my hair like I’m the smoothest smooth that ever smoothed.
“Were you squeezing my ass?” Her voice is raspy and morning-horny. My dick twitches, and I swear her eyes widen.
“Good morning.” It’s the weakest deflection, but I hope her pre-coffee brain hasn’t engaged yet.
“Ass, Stuart. I asked you a question about grabbing my ass.” Her lips are in a flat line but her eyes twinkle. I can’t tell if she wants to bury me in the backyard or laugh.
“I must’ve gotten cold last night.” It’s exceedingly difficult to carry on this conversation when she’s still on top of me, our lips are just a few inches apart, and I’m trying to will my dick into submission. I can’t think of toenail clippings and the crust around the opening of a ketchup bottle while getting lost in the deepest brown eyes.
“My hand was probably looking for a warm place to spend the night.” I’m a dead man.
She smirks at me and hums like she’s deciding my fate. Honestly, I could die right here, under her lush body, and I wouldn’t mind that much.
An oof escapes me when she presses herself up, her hands on my chest. Pins and needles immediately race down my left arm to my fingertips. I bet if I jerked off with my left hand right now it would feel like a stranger was giving me a handy.
She winds up straddling me, one of her feet planted on the floor, and my dick situation has ratcheted up to an emergency. “Bathroom,” I bite out, then grab her by the waist and set her on the other end of the couch. I want to spend a moment replaying the cute little squeak that escapes her, but things need dealing with.
I lock myself in the bathroom and resist the urge to stroke myself. Toenails and ketchup bottle crustiness. I splash cold water on my face, chanting crusty under my breath. It finally works, until I catch a whiff of Meredith’s scent on the collar of my shirt. And then I start the process all over again.