“Have fun, kids,” Lina called as I carried Sloane down the hall to the bedroom.
I tossed her on the bed, making her laugh. “You’re awfully frisky for a man who hasn’t slept in two days.”
“Ruining the life of a bad guy does that to me,” I teased, stripping off my jacket and tie.
“My hero.”
The words from her did strange things to my insides. And I knew I’d treasure them just like every “attaboy” I’d earned from her father.
Sloane crawled higher up the bed and propped herself on the new mound of pillows I’d had delivered. She patted the spot next to her. “Come tell me all about it, big guy, and then we’ll get naked and do naughty things to each other.”
I made it a quarter of my way through my retelling of Hugo’s arrest before I passed out with Sloane in my arms and proceeded to sleep the sleep of a hero for the next ten hours.
44
It’s Not about Drawer Space
Sloane
Stef: Flowers and champagne are too cliché, right?
Me: Too cliché for what?
Stef: For asking a man to move in with me.
Me: I’m honored that you’d come to me for your grand gesture advice.
Stef: Naomi is too much of a romantic, and Lina wouldn’t know romance if it bit her in her delectable ass. So I’m asking you. Advise me already. Too much or not enough?
Me: It depends on the rest of the setup. Is this an intimate-conversation-over-wine-and-homemade-pasta-or-whatever-your-talented-gay-hands-make thing? Or is this an announcement-with-fireworks-and-a-marching-band-in-front-of-the-entire-town thing?
Stef: I see I’ve come to the wrong person. I should have asked a straight dude.
Me: Have you thought about tattooing “Will you move in with me?” on your ass? Or turning a kid’s birthday/petting zoo into a surprise proposal?
Stef: I need to go back to the drawing board. Everything has to be perfect, meticulously planned. It’s got to be romantic and on-brand. A story we’ll tell our kids. My God. What if he doesn’t want kids? Do I want kids?
Me: You’re spiraling. Go eat some chocolate.
Aha! There you are,” I said, triumphantly digging the bra I’d been looking for out of my overnight bag. I shoved the rest of the contents back inside and zipped it shut.
The very naked, very sinful-looking Lucian cast a baleful look in my direction from his position on the bed.
“What? You said we were going out for dinner. I can’t go braless in public. These babies unleashed have been known to cause stampedes,” I said over my shoulder as I headed into the man’s massive spa-like bathroom. Hexagonal charcoal tiles were warm and toasty under my bare feet. The double vanity had enough space between the high-end onyx sinks to play a round of shuffleboard. And the shower. Oh, the shower.
It was the main reason I hadn’t yet demanded that Lucian take me home to Knockemout.
Anthony Hugo had been in custody for four days. The danger was officially over. But I was still here, enjoying four days of dinners out and walks under the cherry blossoms. Four days of working out of the same office together, sharing the same bed. Four days of having an astronomical amount of sex with Lucian Rollins.
I unpacked my toiletries from the bag I kept hanging on the linen closet door and finagled the settings on the shower’s touch screen.
“I can program your preferences into the system,” Lucian offered from behind me.
I eyed him as he prowled into the bathroom naked. “Nah. I like pushing buttons,” I said as I took in the obscenely fine view. He looked like a moving statue. A marble ode to perfection come to life.
I stepped into the tiled shower and let the rain head faucet pelt me from above. I groaned. “Ugh. This makes me want to renovate my bathroom.”
Lucian joined me, his hands immediately finding the curves of my hips.
We showered in silence, luxuriating in the hot water and each other’s bodies. But I could feel a tension in him that hadn’t been there before.
“What’s wrong? Is there a problem with the Hugo case?” I asked as Lucian watched me pensively in the mirror while I towel dried my shampoo and conditioner bottles before slipping them back in the bag.
“My problem is you,” he said, turning to face me.
“Me? Now what did I do?” I demanded, trying not to be dazzled by the water droplets sprinkled across his chest.
“I gave you drawers and closet space. I gave you vanity space,” he announced, yanking open one of the empty drawers next to the sink he’d designated as mine. “I made room for you in my shower, in my home.”