Page 6 of Dean

Just when I thought he couldn’t be any more perfect, he goes and holds me when I’m upset. How does he know exactly what I need without me saying a word? Now I’m even more in love with him. I’m marrying him in my mind. I’ve already picked out my wedding dress.

“You’re going to regret this,” I say, peeking up at him. “Now I’m going to expect cuddles every time I’m sad.”

He smirks and shrugs. “We’ll see.”

Yes, we will.

We drive back across town and grab some fast food before heading to his place. It’s a small, one-story house with a detached garage—where Ben lives—set off to the side. There’s nothing spectacular about it, just an ordinary residence, but immediately my mind is conjuring up the things I’d do if it were mine. I’d paint it a wild color with a brightly colored door. Maybe blue and yellow. Potted plants would line the front porch, and I’d for sure add in some trees. Birch maybe, and some Canada red chokecherry trees. They aren’t really meant for this warmer climate, but they remind me of home. I used to watch them lose their leaves in the fall and bloom in the spring up in Northern California. It was the one thing I liked up there, besides my sister, of course.

“Home sweet home,” Dean says, moving his arm away from me andshutting off the car. He gets out, popping the trunk in the process, and grabs all my stuff, slinging the black plastic bag over his shoulder and jostling the box in his other hand. I just stand there and watch this man carry all my belongings into his house. Really, I’m ogling his back muscles which are clearly visible beneath his shirt and trying to regain my bearings. After all, I was just snuggled up against him for twenty minutes. I can smell him on me.

He didn’t even remove his arm when we went through the drive-thru—just acted like this was totally normal.

Nothing about my situation is normal.

Dean is straight. He likes women. Do not get any ideas up in that pretty head of yours, Avery Mitchell.

I grab the greasy bag of food from the passenger seat and follow Dean inside the house, looking around at the sparsely decorated space. It’s a total man cave.

I would toss some colorful paint on the walls and buy some throw pillows to lighten the space up. God, if this house was mine, I would give it the biggest makeover. You wouldn’t even recognize it.

Quickly, I shake those thoughts away because I sound ungrateful. I’m so fucking thankful I have a place to sleep tonight. Sleeping in a car is hell. I’m so glad I’m not doing that again tonight.

“Back here,” he says, moving down a short hallway and pushing open a door with his foot.

“Here you go,” he says, carefully setting the box and bag down on the floor. A twin bed is pushed up against the wall and a small desk with a computer sits directly opposite. There’s a dresser shoved into the closet and a dead plant on the windowsill. The carpet is gray and the walls are plain white, paint chipping in some places.

I’d paint this room lavender and fill that windowsill with potted plants galore. Maybe if I have a chance, I can paint a canvas and hang it on the wall.

“It’s not much…”

“It’s perfect.” I grin at him, and his cheeks redden. I look away, trailing my hand over the soft comforter on the bed before looking out the window and seeing the backyard. “Where’s your bedroom?” I ask, turning to face Dean, tucking my hands into my overall pockets.

His hands are clutching the doorframe, his shirt riding up that muscular torso, showing me just enough skin to make my entire body break out in a sweat. Holy shit, he looks like he should be on a wall calendar. A sexy older man calendar.

I’d buy that in a heartbeat and jack off to it nightly, coming right across his face. I’d have to tuck it under my mattress because it would be stained and filthy.

“Just over here,” he says, nodding behind him.

“That’s so…close,” I say, swallowing, and he smiles softly at me.

“It is.”

Then he’s pulling away from the door and moving out to the kitchen, saying, “Gonna go eat so I can get back to work.”

And I’m left wondering what the fuck just happened. I must have imagined it. I’ve obviously lost my marbles. That punch to my face has rattled my brain. He did not smilesoftly. He just smiled. A nice, platonic grin.

I’m just imagining the sexual tension to try to distract myself from the fact I’m homeless. I have nowhere to go after this. I will need to start looking for apartments immediately.

Toeing the box Dean set on the floor with my shoe, I shake my head. I’ll organize all my crap later—right now, my stomach is rumbling. I haven’t eaten since last night and I’m famished. I’m like a crocodile. I need to gorge. The amount of food I can put down is admirable. You should see what I can do with a cock.

When I move into the kitchen, I see Dean sitting on a chair at a worn table, my food laid out next to his. Is this what it will be like living here with him? Sharing meals and tables and laundry machines?

I’m not sure I can handle this. It’s so…domestic.

“You all right?” he asks as I pull the chair out and plop down onto it, our knees hitting under the table. I feel that all the way up to my dick.

“Yeah, I will be. This is just par for the course. I should have known they’d do that to my stuff. They were always a little…strange.”

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