Page 46 of Space Junk: Houston, We Have a Hottie
“Well, yes. But also, the thing on the car.”
I squeeze her tight and groan. “Jesus, darling. You’re gonna be the death of me.”
She sighs and sinks into the hug, turning her head to rest it on my chest. “I don’t even mind when you call me that.”
“What?”
“Darling. I usually hate it when people call me that. But I like it when you do it.”
I drop a light kiss on the top of her head. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.” The word blows out of her in a breath, the tendrils around her face dancing.
“Darling, there are a good many things I’m hoping to do that you’ll like.” I close my eyes for a moment, gathering the strength I need to step back. But when I do, I grab hold of her hand, unwilling to completely surrender her touch.
Fingers entwined, I lead Jackie out of the garage and through the side door to the house. When I flip on the lights, she stops mid-stride, tugging my arm back.
For a minute I’m worried she’s having second thoughts, until I catch the look on her face. Eyes wide, mouth open, gaze sharp, seemingly undimmed from the alcohol, she scans every surface.
She still seems turned on, but it might be because of my house.
Part of me is proud, similar to the feeling when people appreciate a particularly meaningful restoration I’ve done. And there’s this weird caveman-like satisfaction that the woman I’m into openly admires the home I’ve worked so hard on.
The mid-century era has been on my radar ever since I first got my hands on my illusive 1969 Boss 429 Mustang. People usually think I bought my house because of the popularity of the show Mad Men. They’d probably all laugh if I told them I bought it ‘cause it went with my car.
“This is beautiful, Flynn,” Jackie says, her eyes roving over the large ribbon windows and floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors that make up the entire back wall of my house.
“And look at the ceiling!” She actually jumps up and down and points to the pitched roof’s exposed beam.
Damn, she’s cute. “I think I may have lost you. You aren’t supposed to be looking at my beam.” I step closer. “At least not the one up there.”
She laughs, but cuts it short, exclaiming, “Is that a Noguchi table?” She walks over to the living room section of the open floor plan. “An original Eames lounge chair?” Running her fingers over the Brazilian rosewood and leather, she breathes, “No way.”
This stirs up the other part of me. The part that isn’t proud, but rather is waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for Jackie to show her true colors and start talking about money and—
“I think your dining room table cost more than my yearly rent.” She laughs.
There it is.
I try to laugh with her, but her words feel like a punch to the gut and she tilts her head at me when an incoherent sound barks out of my chest.
I find myself rubbing the back of my neck, joking, “That isn’t saying much.”
“True,” she says, still smiling. “And I just love this neighborhood, but the houses usually need a lot of work.”
I want to ask her how she knows all about this stuff, but I’m afraid of the answer. This girls ticks all the boxes and then some, pulling me into an immediate, all-consuming awareness and need. Which is scary enough on its own, but the conversation we’re having now is digging up too many ghosts and painful memories.
“I gutted it after I bought it.” I look up at the ceiling and down to the terrazzo tile floor, anywhere but at her. “I had a crew come in for the heavy lifting, but mostly I did it myself.”
“You did? That’s really impressive.” Her eyes focus on me again, and the way they heat as they travel over my body eases some of the tension I’ve been feeling. Well, almost all the tension. A part of me is still just as tense now as it was when I saw Jackie at the bar.
“Yeah, I’m good with my hands,” I say, lifting them up for her to see, distracting her from the semi pushing against my zipper.
I motion her to me with a flick of my fingers.
Eyes still on my hands, a blush spreads up her neck as she takes a step forward.
“Want me to show you how good I can be with my hands?” At her nod, I lay my hands on her shoulders, pushing the leather down, exposing more of that beautiful skin.
