Page 109 of Wild Love
If I weren’t so amused by the whole clusterfuck, I’d want to lie down and die of embarrassment. But as it stands, I’m kind of invested in seeing how this all plays out.
Call it a morbid sense of curiosity.
I re-create our moment of insanity in my head as I wander back to my place in a happy sex daze. In the shower, I close my eyes and pretend my hands are his, roaming my body.
The way he switched from hard and domineering to softand worshipful gave me the best kind of whiplash. My body aches with the memory of him.
When I step out, I apply body lotion and murmur his words back to myself.
You’re fucking perfect. I missed you like crazy this weekend.I wouldn’t feel trapped with you.
In the past, sentiments like that might have triggered an alarm. I’ve never been one to get easily attached. But with Ford, they don’t read like cheap pickup lines. They don’t make sirens go off in my head.
All I feel is a warm, floating sensation low in my belly. Like tension unfurling, soothing all the anxiety. Washing away that pesky itching sensation I always feel in his presence.
“Ah!” I jump when I see my roommate, the little brown mouse, scurry across the floor and run under my bed. “Seriously, dude,” I grumble, tugging on jeans and a sweater, feeling like I need to get out and walk, or be around other humans, or something—pace a circle or some shit. “You don’t need to run out and startle me like that. Just be cool. Strut out like you own the place. I’m too soft to evict you anyway. I’ll just make sure my brother doesn’t find out about you.”
I hear the light patter of him scurrying across the floor. He pops out on the other side of the bed, heading for the kitchen.
“I should name you Ratatouille.”
I watch it. Little, round ears. Beady, black eyes. I should take issue with a mouse in my space, but I just… don’t.
“Good point,” I say to absolutely no one. “You’re not a rat. I get it. I do. What about Scotty?”
Now that would be entertaining. I laugh at myself as it creeps along under the lower ledge of the cupboards, and I find myself watching it. Little nose sniffing, whiskers wiggling as it searches for crumbs.
Crumbs it finds—because I put them there.
“It would be nice if you could keep your poop outside. I’m getting a little tired of vacuuming and washing the floor every day.”
A knock at the door draws my attention away, and I walk across the open bunkhouse to yank it open. I was expecting West, but Ford is standing right in front of me. Filling all the space with his imposing height and broad shoulders.
His hair is damp, and he’s wearing a brown cable-knit sweater. The white T-shirt underneath peeks out, and I glimpse the flash of his silver chain disappearing beneath the layers.
He props a hand on the top of the doorframe, leaning in a bit closer. “Hi.”
My eyes travel back up to his. And what I see there is… nerves. He looksnervous.
“Hi.” I smile softly, take a deep whiff of him, and reach forward, hooking one finger around the chain and pulling it out. I brush my thumb along the tarnished key and shake my head. I still can’t believe he held onto it for all these years.
“Who were you talking to?”
“My mouse,” I reply absently.
“Your mouse?”
“Yeah, Scotty.”
I peek up at Ford and his grumpy, heavyset brows. Thehigh peaks of his model-like cheekbones. No wonder they named him the world’s sexiest billionaire. The monetary status is just a gimmick for a face that is most definitely magazine-worthy.
“You named the mouse, who is living in your house, Scotty?”
“Yeah.”
A tendon at the edge of his jaw pops. “Why?”
“To piss you off.”
