Page 23 of Strike Zone

Nash lip lifts in an evil grin. “You’ll see. Good luck.”

Hesitantly, I leave the safety of the living room and head towards the basement door. I glance back at Nash and he nods and waves a hand for me to keep going. I’m not sure I want to.

The air is significantly cooler as I make my way down the stairs and enter the open den. Minimal furniture decorates a small living area. A pub style table is positioned in the far corner beside a black leather couch. It screams bachelor pad.

“Wyatt?” I call out towards the hallway of doors. No answer. He never makes anything easy for me.

I knock on one door. Again no answer. I open it up and it’s the bathroom. I pass another door on my right that is slightly ajar. A bedroom. The bed is unmade. There is a picture on the dresser of Nash and Sydney. I’m guessing this room belongs to Nash then.

Only one door left. I knock with no response on the other side. There is country music playing. Maybe he can’t hear me. I try the knob and it turns easily. “Wyatt?” I call out to warn him before entering his room. I do not want to walk in on anything that will scar me for life.

Dear mother of God.

I blink hard and adjust my eyes. I was not prepared for the sight in front of me. And no, it isn’t Wyatt naked. That would be a welcome visual compared to this.

“Hey. You’re here. Come on in. I was just starting my paper.” Wyatt pops up from the chair at his desk where his laptop barely fits around all the clutter surrounding him. How is he able to get any work done with his desk in this condition? I scratch the itch at my neck.

“Were you raided? Did your room get tossed?” Or maybe he started cleaning out his closet and got distracted. It’s very easy to become a victim to memorabilia that’s been lost and buried in a closet.

Wyatt has clothes everywhere. It’s not just clothes. It’s books, papers, shoes, belts, hats, weights.

I glance into his open closet. My knees threaten to buckle. My throat gets scratchy and dry. His closet is a hoarder's paradise. Close your eyes and look away. Pretend it doesn’t exist.

“No, I wasn’t raided. This is how it always looks.”

I gasp. “You’re kidding,” I say as I tiptoe around his room, avoiding random objects like land mines. Wyatt lifts my backpack off my shoulder and places it on his bed.

“It’s not that bad. I’m busy. I don’t have time to clean. Okay?”

“I’m not judging you.” I glance around his room, trying to keep my face neutral. Internally I’m having a moment.

“You are. It’s what you do,” he says casually as if this is information I’m already aware of. I stare back at him open-mouthed, not really sure how to respond. “Oh come on, you had me figured out the moment we met.”

“I form opinions based on what I observe. If you don’t want me to think of you a certain way, act differently.”

He nods thoughtfully. “You’re okay with people assessing you based on the same criteria?” he asks, gathering all the clothes from his bed.

“Yes. I know how I come across. I am who I am. People can think whatever they want about me.” I watch in horror as he tosses everything onto the floor. “Were those clean?” I can’t stop myself from asking.

“Yeah, I pulled them out of the dryer twenty minutes ago.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal.

“Those are going to wrinkle.”

“It’s workout gear and T-shirts. It’s fine. I’m not worried about it. Make yourself comfortable.” He gestures toward his bed. “We can do our homework first. That way I can have your full attention later.” I ignore another one of his innuendos. He has no filter. It’s a side of him I’m becoming more accustomed to.

“In here? I don’t think I can be comfortable in here.”

“I’ll sit on the bed. You can have the desk.”

I understand now what Nash meant about Wyatt bringing women down here. There is no way you are entertaining anyone in this room. Why does that make me feel relieved?

“That's not the problem.” I scratch at my chest again. Great. I’m going to break out in hives if I don’t do something about this. Wyatt pulls out the desk chair for me. He’s moved his laptop, but the piles of books and miscellaneous items remain cluttering the surface.

“Sit,” he commands. I glance up at him. His hand goes to my shoulder, applying the slightest amount of pressure, forcing me into the chair. I feel the same tingle I felt yesterday when he placed his hand on my back. Instinct told me to flinch away, instead I relaxed into his touch.

“Can I just…I need to…” I glance back at his laundry.

“Seriously?” he asks, his head tilts and eyebrows rise toward his hairline. I can’t explain my need to organize and clean his space. I know it will gnaw at me until the task is complete. I won’t be able to concentrate on anything else until it is taken care of.

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