Page 68 of Ripped & Shipped
“Suffocating.”
“I don’t know why you wouldn’t want a man like that to suffocate you.”
“What? That’s just weird.”
“Okay. Yeah. It is. What I mean is, you don’t always have to be the only one on team Ella Mae. Let some other people care for you sometimes. I think it’s sweet that Chris is popping up all over town checking on you. Why can’t you just let it be what it is. Stop trying to make it into this awful, annoying thing. What woman wouldn’t want a man like that purposely crossing her path all day long? If I weren’t with Joe, I’d say, sign me up.”
“There’s so much wrong with what you just said, I can’t even. But yeah. I’ll try to see it as sweet.”
If it weren’t so confusing.
But it’s not really confusing. I meant what I said to Meg. Even if she doesn’t want to see it, this is a classic case of a hero latching onto someone he thinks needs saving. Cut and dry. Nothing more.
Meg’s and my attention shifts as Chris sets down the saw and walks up onto the porch. His knock causes Meg to wiggle her fingers at me and hightail it up the stairs in her matching pj tank and bottoms, leaving me to answer the door.
Chris rubs the back of his arm across his brow.
“Hey.”
His voice is deeper and more rumbly in the morning. It sends an unwelcome chill through me. A visceral reaction, that’s all that is. There’s nothing like a raw, manly voice to set the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck on edge—in a way that isn’t so awful. But it is awful. It’s Chris, after all.
“What can I do for you, Soldier?”
Chris’ eyes scan my outfit. I’m wearing hot pink yoga pants that have a lace panel up the side of each leg. My feet are bare, and conveniently, my toenail polish matches the pants. I have on a hot pink, white, and lavender flowered, cropped yoga top that’s form fitted. Chris lifts his eyes to meet mine.
I cock an eyebrow.
Yeah, Soldier. You’re so busted.
“Um. Could I … uh. Could I use your restroom?”
I stand back and wave Chris in with the gesture of a butler. “In the back, off the kitchen.”
He toes off his boots, which earns brownie points, and also reminds me he’s a grown man who lives alone, taking care of a house, cooking, cleaning, doing all the adulting. Something about that makes me see him differently. Maybe even admire him a little.
Meg comes down carrying her satchel for work. That woman can shower and dress faster than Superman changes from Clark Kent.
“What’s with guys who haveBeefyin their username?” she asks as she heads toward the kitchen.
“What do you mean?” I ask, following her.
She pulls cereal out of the pantry, opens the fridge, grabs the milk, and turns to pull a bowl down when Chris steps out of the half-bath and into the kitchen.
She gasps. “Oh! Chris! I didn’t know you were in here! You scared me!”
“Sorry,” I say. “I was listening to whatever you were saying about beefy guys. I forgot to tell you he came in.”
“Anyway,” Meg continues, as if Chris isn’t here. “You and the beefy guys.”
“What?”
I look over at Chris. He’s leaning against the door jamb, his arms crossed across his chest like he’s got all day, and like whatever Meg has to say is his business too. It’s not.
“Don’t you have a job to do?” I ask him.
“I’m on break,” he says to me, a smirk on his face. “What were you saying, Meg?”
“I was saying Ella Mae’s got some guys on her account that are always crossing the line in their comments. Ironically, two of them havebeefyin their username. Crazy, huh?”
