Page 48 of Set on You

•••

YOU CAN LEARNa lot about a person by going through the entirety of IKEA with them. It’s a true test of one’s patience, spatial awareness, level of maturity, and self-discipline. Particularly in the final section, where they so rudely tempt you with cinnamon rolls and Daim chocolate caramel candies. Why are you trying to break me, IKEA?

As it turns out, Scott has the patience of a saint. We’re trapped behind a family with three rambunctious children, all under approximately seven years old. They’re screeching because their parents shunned their demands for soft-serve ice cream cones. I wince, digging my fingernails into my palms as the youngest one lets out an earsplitting howl, all while Scott whistles cheerfully beside me, as if we’re taking a leisurely stroll through a lush, tranquil meadow on a breezy, sunny day. His stride is confident, unhurried, and so entirely sexy, I could watch hours of CCTV footage of him doing nothing but walking.

He also appears to have an excellent sense of direction. He’s whizzing through the showroom like a total pro, undeterred by distractions. The last time I was here, on a solo mission for a mere picture frame, I ended up hopelessly disoriented, despite the large arrows on the floor. Then again, Scott is a career fireman. I assume spatial orientation while running into unfamiliar burning buildings is a prerequisite for the job.

Despite this, Scott is immature in the mattress section. And so am I. One by one, we test them, assessing the level of bounce, support, and overall plushness.

“I need this bed,” he says, eyes closed, as we lie side by side on a marshmallow-like queen-size mattress.

When I turn toward him, the mattress dips more than expected, causing me to inadvertently roll into his shoulder. My stomach flutters at the mere warmth of his body. Hello, bliss.

He gives me a flirty side-eye. “Trying to cuddle with me?”

“No.” I abruptly roll away to put the appropriate amount of space between us again. I overcompensate and nearly tumble off the mattress entirely. Talk about being on the edge of glory.

“I think you were.”

“I think you just wish I were.” Truthfully, his chest looks cozy and inviting. All I want to do is nuzzle into his neck. But I manage to pull myself back to reality and maintain my restraint, despite how barren, cold, and lonely it is in my own personal space bubble.

“I never knew IKEA was such a good time,” he says, changing the subject.

I give him a warning look. “It’s all fun and games until you hit the warehouse. Then it’s all-out anarchy.”

He laughs and sits upright, holding his hand out for me.“Alright, let’s go pick a dresser.” Without thinking, I take his hand. But the moment our fingers touch, a jolt of electricity sends a shock wave rolling down my spine.

Hand locked firmly around mine, he carries on down the aisle, perma-smiling.

I sigh as I follow him through the aisle, unable to stop concentrating on the pad of his finger circling around the soft part of my hand below my thumb. I gloriously fail to fend off semi-sexual or romantic thoughts. I do a quick scan for something, literally anything, to lift my mind out of the gutter. My eye catches a beautiful living room display.

“Did you know I’m kind of obsessed with houses and décor?” I ask.

He eyes me with interest. “I figured as much, based on your furniture. You’re practically an antique hunter.”

“When I was little, I used to get my dad to drive me around the neighborhood at night so I could see into other people’s houses.”

Scott halts in the middle of the aisle, to the horror of the elderly man behind us. I make room for the man to step around us, accidentally backing into Scott’s chest. I let go of his hand and spin around.

Scott smiles, settling his hands on either side of my waist, as if they belong there. “You’re telling me you used to peep into people’s houses at night? And your dad aided and abetted?”

For a brief moment, I gawk up at him, taking in the full extent of his height towering over me before backing away. Cheeks pink, he studies my face, a smile playing across his lips.

I nod, as if it isn’t a big deal. “Pretty much. He mostly used it as an opportunity to blast his Shania Twain CD. She’s his forever girl crush.”

He throws his head back, clutching his chest with booming, uninhibited laughter. “Didn’t expect Will to be a country fan. And you’re basically one step below serial killer status.” He pauses as we turn toward the dresser section. “Did you have binoculars too?”

I playfully whack him on the bicep.

“Now I know to close my blinds.”

I fight the urge to laugh while maintaining a serious expression. “I don’t do it to creep on people, obviously. I just like looking at other people’s décor, the layouts of houses.”

“You’d get along with my mom, then. She watches HGTV constantly. She’s in love with the Property Brothers,” he says as we approach the dresser section.

After gentle prodding, I persuade him to select the six-drawer HEMNES chest in a dark gray stain (ample space for all his lacy delicates, I argue). We then manage to locate the correct model number in the warehouse with relative ease. Based on how much fun he’s having wheeling around on those flat carts, I conclude the warehouse is his favorite part of the entire store.

“Get on,” he orders, nodding toward the cart with a completely straight face.

---