Page 62 of We Met Like This
“Any standouts?”
His eyes met mine again. “Yes, this woman who only wants me for my body.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Youdohave a nice body.”
“She thinks we’re incompatible because we have nothing in common. Any advice for me?”
I let out a sharp breath. “Tell her to give you time. You seem like the type who grows on people.”
“I am,” he said, a sly smile coming onto his handsome face.
I needed to get up, move. Not sit so close to him, absorbing all his energy, making me wonder why I let any sort of line be drawn in the sand about our relationship status or lack thereof. “Do you want a tour?”
“A tour?” he asked.
“Of the apartment.”
He scanned the room. From where he sat, he could see that there wasn’t much to our apartment. He’d been in our modest kitchen and now sat in our small living room. He probably thought he’d already had the tour.
“Your books,” he said after his scan. “I’d like to see your books. You said you had a bigger collection than at your office. You need to back this up.”
My books were in my bedroom. No big deal. I could take this man into my bedroom. We were friends now. Friends who weren’t going to have sex anytime soon.
“Yes, you must see my collection. If I’m going to brag about size, I better be willing to prove it.”
He chuckled. “You’re good at that, you know.”
“At what?” I asked, feigning innocence.
“You know what.” He stood.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll stop.”
“Don’t stop on my account.”
I smiled, then led him down the hall and opened my bedroom door.
He hesitated at the threshold. “I didn’t realize they would be in your bedroom.”
“Is that a problem,friend?” I teased.
“Not at all,” he said, stepping in first.
I shoved him playfully with a laugh and he stumbled forward, laughing as well. I pointed toward my bed, the comforter balled up at the bottom, my sheets twisted and messy. “I blame that on my night. Normally I make my bed every morning.”
“Do you?” he asked, curious.
I cringed. “No, but I’m starting that habit tomorrow. And that’s my clothes chair.” I nodded to the stack of clothes piled high on my overstuffed chair. “Worn once but not dirty enough to need a wash.”
“You have a system,” he said.
“Organized chaos.”
Across from my bed, on the opposite wall, were my bookcases. I’d bought them from Ikea and they fit almost perfectly across the length of the wall, giving the appearance of built-ins. And like my bed and my clothes chair, the books that lived there were a mismatch of stacks and rows, organized in a way that only I understood.
“Oh wow,” he said. “You’re right, youshouldbrag about size. You should even pull out a tape measure.” He took several steps closer and ran his hand along some spines. He might as well have been running his hand up my spine based on how my body shivered in reaction to his words and action.
“You want to borrow a book?” I asked too loudly.
