Chapter 22 #3
“Clearly.” He chuckles. “I’m starting to understand why you’re this way.”
My stomach flips. “What way?”
He clears his throat abruptly and turns back to the dresser. “Come on. Next outfit. Clock’s ticking.”
I only hesitate a second before retreating to the bedroom and yanking the blouse over my head, then stepping out of my pants in a graceless hop that nearly takes me down with them.
A few moments later, I’m standing there in my skirt, dark stockings, and the maroon lace bra I picked this morning because it made me feel put together like someone who might be kissed on purpose.
My fingers pause on the edge of my beige sweater with the low V-neck.
Would Paul think this is a pretty bra?
The memory of the black one he washed for me flickers up, how he looked at it, and heat blooms under my skin.
God. Get a grip, Lenny.
He’s not going to see your bra today.
I’m still staring down at myself when Nevan’s voice cuts through the apartment, yelling my name loud enough that I yank the bedroom door open.
“Nevan? Did you hurt yourself?”
“Spencer is calling.” He waves my phone at me with a mischievous grin. “Should I pick up?”
“God, no. Just put it on silent.”
He doesn’t put it on silent. He answers it.
“Nevan!”
I launch myself at him, making a grab for the phone, but he lifts his arm higher like this is suddenly a very stupid game of keep-away. He’s standing at his full, infuriating height, and even on my tiptoes, fingers stretching, skirt riding up, dignity evaporating, I’m nowhere close.
“Hey, man. Bad timing. She’s currently being aggressively pursued by someone with better hair.”
He hangs up, and I stop struggling.
“Did you really just say that?”
He shrugs. “I panicked.”
He looks entirely too pleased with himself, but then his gaze flickers down my body, and the grin drops clean off his face.
Oh.
Right.
I am standing in front of him in my bra.
Heat detonates across my cheeks as I fold my arms instinctively while Nevan’s gaze rockets toward the ceiling.
“Sorry,” he says quickly, swallowing. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine.” I aim for breezy. “These things have a strong stage presence.”
“That’s not…” He stops himself, then thrusts my phone toward me without looking, his cheeks flushing pink. “Maybe… go get dressed?”
“Great plan. Love that plan.” I take the phone and retreat to the bedroom, dragging the beige sweater I had in mind over my head before forcing myself to walk back out like a person who has never in her life forgotten she was half naked.
Nevan is exactly where I left him, except now he’s very deliberately not assembling anything. Instead, he’s turning the screwdriver slowly between his fingers, staring at the floor. When he notices me, his shoulders shift in that subtle, boy-caught-doing-something-stupid way.
“Hey,” he says.
I lean against the doorframe. “You shouldn’t have answered it.”
“Yeah. Probably not.”
He does not look even slightly sorry. Just aware.
I’m not sorry either.
My fingers fidget with the sweater’s hem. “Also,” I add, because apparently today is a day for public humiliation. “Sorry you got an eyeful of the full unedited version.”
He frowns faintly. “What does that mean?”
“Stretch marks. Soft bits. General evidence of existing.”
“I think stretch marks are pretty.” He shrugs, then kneels on the floor in front of the dresser pieces.
“Sure.”
“I have them too.”
I snort. “As if.”
“I’m serious.” He hooks his fingers into the hem of his flannel and lifts it.
Oh.
Oh, that’s not fair.
He’s all lean muscle, long lines, defined abs, the faint dip of an Adonis belt disappearing into his jeans, and a blond happy trail I absolutely did not need to notice.
“See?” he says, pointing to his hip.
I’m still staring at his stomach. “Why do you hide all of that under baggy clothes?”
He glances down at himself like he genuinely has no idea what I’m talking about. “What?”
“You’re built, Nevan. Did Sydney ever actually see you? Like were the lights on when you got naked?”
He laughs, pink creeping into his ears. “It was… pretty dark, I guess.”
“That’s our new strategy,” I say, drawing a circle with my finger in the air between us. “Next time something needs fixing at the inn, you do it shirtless. I’ll make sure Sydney walks by.”
He arches a brow. “That’s your master plan? That’s what the romance reader came up with?”
“It’s effective, and we both know those books escalate quickly.”
He huffs, but he’s smiling. Then he lifts the flannel again, angling his hip toward me. Silvery stretch marks catch the light along the top.
I step toward him and lean over, brushing my thumb over one before I can think better of it.
“You’re right, they look pretty.”
His breath catches.
Oh.
I snatch my hand back. “Sorry—”
“It’s fine.” His voice has gone rough when he drops the flannel. Then he looks up and takes in my outfit before a slow smile spreads across his freckled face. “I like that one.”
“Good, because I have given up and am going as myself.”
Terrifying concept, honestly.
“Best option there is,” he murmurs, just as there’s a knock on the door.