I peek up at the impressive house. It’s beautiful and truly unlike any house I’ve ever seen. For me, where I’m from, it looks like it belongs in a movie. It looks like the type of house I’d close my eyes and envision myself in when my reality became too much to bear.
Where there’d be some cute, wholesome boy hosting a party. Our eyes would meet from across the room. We’d be high school sweethearts, and he’d whisk me away from my shitty life.
Then the sound of my dad’s drunken shouting would filter in, and I’d get up and prop a chair under my door.
Fantasy and reality, so close yet still so far apart.
Yet here is that house, that man. They’re right there. And they’re real.
And here I am, trying to convince myself I don’t deserve them.
Teenage me would be horrified.
I guess it’s with her in mind that I get up off the step. Teenage Bailey would have run to him days and days ago. She was a romantic at heart.
Young adult Bailey? She’s not convinced the back door is open.
But when I try the latch, it clicks, and the door gives way to a rush of blissfully cool air. I sigh and let the flow pull me into the space.
As I stand here, I feel a bit like I’m intruding. After all, I ran away from him today to hide in my trailer.
He just stood there, chuckling.
Fucking dick.
I shut the door behind me, wondering what I’m supposed to do now. Should I call him? Text him? Just shout his name?
It doesn’t matter. I know he won’t mind.
My gaze lingers on the black leather sectional in the living room that overlooks the riverbank. The thought of laying myself out on cool leather and drifting off is too tempting to resist.
So that’s what I do. I plop myself down like a tired burglar. In my tiny cotton shorts and loose crop top, the chilled leather on bare skin is heaven. I’d lay myself out naked if I thought no one was here. I’m at the point where I’d happily lie on the floor just to take my temperature down.
I sigh and stare at the vaulted ceiling with a skylight, so different from the top of my trailer. The light above the stove in the open-concept kitchen is on, which means it’s not as dark in here as you might hope.
But I don’t care.
As long as it doesn’t feel like a frying pan, I’m happy. A simple girl with simple needs.
When I start to doze off, I hear feet padding against the polished concrete floors. Casual and unhurried—unlike my heart rate, which is through the fucking roof.
He whistles a tune, and I debate whether I should sit up and announce myself. That seems like the least weird thing to do, but as I settle on it and sit up, I freeze.
My gaze has just cleared the back of the couch and landed on Naked Beau.
Fully naked.
Head-to-toe naked.
He’s whistling and gazing into the fridge. The door covers his head and shoulders but leaves every other inch of his side profile bare.
Narrow waist, round ass—
My eyes go wide when they land on his dick. It’s like a porn dick. But flaccid. I stare, trying to figure out if it’s just the angle or if it’s the fact I haven’t seen a penis in real life. Maybe the scale is different.
I duck down, hiding behind the back of the couch but refusing to look away. I’m officially doing my best imitation of that simple line drawing with the head poking up over a wall, little mitted hands curled over the top.
Wide eyes because that little cartoon person is a voyeur. I just know it.
Beau carries on humming to himself as he turns and pulls out all the makings for a sandwich. I dip down, hiding and internally berating myself. Any normal adult would just have announced herself by now. Taken an eyeful. Glanced away politely. Laughed it off.
But I’ve royally fucked myself because I’ve waited too long. Now he’ll know I was peeking, and I’ll never live it down.
I decide I’ll stick to my guns and stay hidden, pretend I slept through it when he finds me sleeping on his couch in the morning.
Resolved, I decide there’s no harm in peeking again. I’ve already seen it all. What’s one more glance? I’ll save it in the brain cam for a rainy day.
Easing up like a stealthy ninja, I let out a quiet sigh when I see he’s facing away from me. But the back view is just as good as the front. Or side.
I don’t think Beau Eaton has any bad angles.
But his ass? I could die. Everything about the man is big and coarsely muscled. Scars pepper his skin, but they only add to his appeal. The lines in his back and shoulders ripple as he, I don’t know—spreads mayonnaise on bread?