Page 22 of Houston, We Have a Problem
I reluctantly drag my eyes up to his face. “Do you usually greet Jordan in a towel?”
Embarrassment splashes across his cheeks in a splotchy red. “No. I was worried he would come up to my room while I was…never mind.”
I have to try so hard not to laugh. “Yousurehe’s just a friend?”
“Absolutely. Though, sometimes I wonder why I keep him around.”
I’ve only interacted with Jordan a couple of times, but I quickly figured him out. He’s a super friendly guy with no real sense of boundaries, and he pretty much never gets embarrassed. The man carried my drawer full of underwear without flinching and even asked if my lacy black bra—the one I only have in case I someday need something fancy in my normal life—is comfortable or tickles my skin. (For the record, it definitely tickles.) He even told me about his relationship with Houston’s sister without batting an eye. I don’t think anything fazes the guy, so I can imagine him finding it perfectly normal to start a conversation with Houston while he’s in the shower.
Houston seems more embarrassed by his friend than the fact that he’s still standing in his open doorway in a towel, which makes sense given the shape he’s in. But then he looks down at my scattered laundry and winces.
I drop down to pick it up, but so does Houston, and our heads collide hard enough that I see stars. A curse slips out of both of us—mine is more a collection of random sounds than actual words—and he grabs my arm before any more accidents happen.
Just like the last time he touched me, I feel it everywhere. He really is so warm, and every pinpoint of skin-to-skin between us seems charged with heat.
He frowns at his hand—does he feel it too?—before looking back up at me. “You okay?”
I feel like I’ve had a collision with a truck, but sure. “I’ve got a hard head.”
He winces. “I noticed. So…” This time when he bends down to pick up some of my clothes, he keeps a hold on me until he’s crouched so we don’t collide again.
Good gravy, he should not be doing that in a towel that small. Keeping my eyes averted, I gather up the rest of my things and stuff them into the basket, hopping back up so he’ll do the same. “We don’t have a washer yet,” I explain, though my face is heating from more exposure to Houston Briggs than I need. Thankfully, I haven’t seen anything that the sun hasn’t also seen. Praise the universe for that towel standing sentinel.
Houston looks at my laundry basket as if it might give him more information.
“And Jesse took the car,” I add, which is true. He’s incredibly bored and went into town to see if he can find a temporary job to pass the time.
Houston looks out at the rain, the wheels turning. “So, you need a ride to the laundromat?” he asks, and he almost seems disappointed by that.
I really hope I’m not reading him wrong and crossing a line when I say, “Actually, I was wondering if I could use yours. Just until we get our own machine. Laundromats and I don’t get along.” Also true.
To my utter relief, Houston steps aside to let me in. “I have a feeling there’s a story there.”
“Did you know it’s possible to light a dryer on fire if you put something flammable in there? And it turns out when you accidentally dunk yourself in tiki torch fluid, that stuff doesn’t easily wash out.”
“You won’t light my dryer on fire, will you?”
“I haven’t swum in any tiki oil recently, but I make no promises.”
I pause in the front room, taking it in. It’s clean and spacious—he doesn’t have a wall separating this room from thekitchen like we do—but it’s surprisingly sparse in terms of things to make it feel homey. I know he’s lived here for several years, so I have to wonder why it looks like he’s as temporary as we are. I guess it makes sense, given how much time he spends on the road, but still. This is hishome.
“Did you use photos of your half for the listing on ours?” I ask, suddenly recognizing the gray leather couch.
Houston lets out a nervous laugh. “Yeah. I hadn’t had any time to clean up your side before my agent wanted the pictures. Sorry again that it wasn’t ready for you. Laundry room is this way.”
I follow him up the stairs eagerly. The deeper we go, the more intimate the stuff will be. “When did the last tenants move out?”
“Couple months ago.”
“Why didn’t you pay someone to clean it for you?” It’s an innocent question, I hope, but I’m still wondering if he’s not as financially secure as he pretends to be. Gambling still seems the most likely, but there are all sorts of things that could get him into trouble.
He leads me into the little laundry room just before the master bedroom—which shares a wall with mine, I notice—and gestures to the laundry supplies. “Use whatever you need,” he says without answering my question. “The knob is a little fiddly, so turn it slightly to the right of where you want it to be.”
“Got it.”
“I’m going to get dressed, and you’re welcome to hang out downstairs while you wait to switch your load over.”
I give him a smile since he’s being incredibly kind about this invasion. “Thanks, Houston.”
