Page 51 of The Check Down

All the while, his colorful boxer briefs do little to hide his assets—including an impressive bulge—from my hungry eyes.

“Is that Tony the Tiger underwear?”

He glances down and nods. “They’regrrreat.” He gives me a cheeky wink.

This man. Flirting even while he’s sick as a dog.

My skin heats until it’s as warm as his. “You did not just say that.”

“I did. And if you like these,” he mutters with a sloppy wave of his hand, “there are a variety of equally enticing pairs in one of those drawers.”

“Okay, I’ll bite.”

He wags his brows, the move making me desperately wish I could pause this scene and reverse it like some cheesy nineties sitcom.

“Imean,” I emphasize, “that I’llaskyou about them. Are you a closet wacky-underwear collector?”

“Sorta.” He lowers to the mattress with his eyes closed. “My brothers and I put them in each other’s Christmas stockings. Been doing it since we got our first summer jobs and had all that minimum-wage cash burning holes in our pockets.”

He swings his strong legs up onto the mattress, and as his weight sinks into it, he lets out a long sigh. With effort, I wrestle the ridiculously high thread count sheets and thick hunter-green comforter out from under him and then over his prone body. He pats the side of the bed in invitation, but his eyes remain closed, so I fiddle with the remote to dim the pendant light that hangs over the table.

“Here.” I perch on the edge of the mattress. “Take these.” He takes the two tablets from me and props himself up on an elbow so he can swallow them with a chug of water.

“You’re an excellent nurse,professor.”

The low gravel in his voice sends a shiver down my spine. I can’t help but reach for him, to smooth my fingers along his brow. He sighs and sags further into the pillow as I continue the soft passes over his heated skin.

“I’ll leave this water on the table. You need to stay hydrated,” I whisper as I tuck my hand into my lap.

His dark lashes flutter, and then those piercing blue-gray eyes focus on me. Despite how dim the room is, Griffin catalogs every inch of my face, his scrutiny so intense I wonder if I’m the one with a fever. But his lids are heavy, and soon, he’s blinking to fight the sleep that wants to take him under. When one of his hands drifts up and tenderly cups my cheek, my breath catches.

“So fucking pretty.”

I force a swallow and fight the urge to nuzzle into his wide, callused hand. I do, however, allow myself to revel in the feel of his skin against mine. Only a heartbeat later, though, his hand drops away and his lids sweep closed for good. When his lips part and he lets out a soft snore, I ease off the bed, chest aching.

I gather his discarded clothes, then I flip off the lamp and carry my lovesick heart to my own bed.

Monday morning arrives, gray and dreary, with a deluge of rain. The perfect match for my mood. I rush through my daily routine and snap my laptop open on the bar in the kitchen with seconds to spare.

The moment the app loads and I click the tab to allow video, my parents’ smiling faces fill the screen.

“Moonbeam!” Dad bellows. “Why is it so dark in there?” He leans closer and squints at the screen, adjusting his wire-framed glasses.

“Hey.” I bite my lower lip to keep it from trembling. “Just a gray, rainy day in Memphis. How’s Florida?”

My mother blows a kiss at the screen. “Oh, it’s seventy-two and sunny, love.” She, too, leans closer, her short, tight curls bouncingas she tilts her head back and forth. “Your aura is murky today. Are you neglecting your self-love?”

“Mom.” Stomach sinking, I glance over my shoulder in the direction of Griffin’s bedroom.

Blessedly, I’ve yet to hear a peep from him. He’s usually out of the apartment when I catch up with my parents during our weekly Zoom calls. I’d die of mortification if he overheard my mother ask me if I’m masturbating regularly. It’s bad enough that she talks so freely about sex in regard to me while in front of my dad, but I learned a long time ago that I can’t control the things that come out of Celeste Nelson’s mouth.

I think both of my parents would drop dead from shock if I confessed that I’ve become a regular practitioner of self-love since I moved into Griffin Lacey’s guestroom.

The second I open my mouth to assure her that my aura is fine, it becomes clear that the universe hates me. Because the door to the laundry room opens, and out walks the star of my self-love fantasies.

He’s dressed in a Blues T-shirt and gray basketball shorts, looking fresh as a daisy, like he didn’t require a chauffeur and multiple bags of IV fluids yesterday. The skin above his beard turns a suspicious shade of pink when he catches sight of me at the bar. When the reason hits me, I’m certain Iwilldie of mortification on this dismal Monday morning.

Because my roommate just stepped out of the laundry room. A place he never sets foot in unless he’s dropping his bag of laundry for his housekeeper to handle. The place where I hung several delicates to dry overnight.

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