Page 69 of Wild Catch
“Um, excuse me.” She puts a hand on her chest, offended. “Haven’t you noticed that my color is lavender?”
I have, actually. Her entire cubicle at work is decked with light purple, and she tends to wear the color often—like right now. She’s in light purple leggings and an off white crop top, oblivious or uncaring to the fact that right now her hips look luscious enough to bite.
“Knock yourself out, then,” I say with a thick voice, finally disappearing into my bedroom and shutting the door behind me.
Swallowing, I hesitate for a moment. Should I lock the door or would that actually be weirder? Like implying that I was expecting her to come in and… I don’t know, debauch me with her eyes while I get changed, if not more.
“Stop this shit. Just because she browsed it doesn’t mean she wants to buy,” I whisper to myself. I’m sure she’d peek at any other reasonably attractive guy in circumstances like this.
I mean, if the roles were reversed I’d probably have been way less cool than her.
After smacking my face so I can get my mind out of the gutter, I head over to the bathroom to finish what I was trying to do. For not the first time this week alone, I contemplate whether shaving my head and face would give me less hassle, but I still apply products to my hair and beard with painstaking care.
I catch muffled sounds from outside as I step back into my bedroom. It’s bizarre to have anyone in my space. I don’t even bring hookups home, yet here I am, buckass naked while my coworker plays house in my living room.
“Better hurry before this feels even weirder,” I mumble.
I’m not sure what she’ll wear but I know I can’t go wrong with black. Is it lazy? Sure, but I’m not angling for a modeling gig tonight. All I’m after is for the night to be short—not even uneventful. That’s an impossible wish.
This time I make sure to put on underwear before donning black slacks. I pair them with a silky black button shirt, rolling the sleeves up to my elbows and leaving enough buttons open that the tattoos are visible. The more reminders my parents get that I’m the imperfect child, the black sheep of the family, the undesirable one they actually can’t wait to get rid of, the faster the night will end.
Finishing the look with the douchiest black loafers in my closet just feels like the cherry on top.
Before leaving my room, I grab an Omega watch that isn’t the most expensive in the market, but is black and indestructible.Like my soul, I think sardonically.
Outside, Rose’s suitcase lays splayed open on the living room floor, mostly empty at this point. She’s by my bookshelves, stretching on her tippy toes to place a purple vase with fake lavender flowers on the top shelf. Pretty sure she’d be offended should I ask if she needs help, so I let her stretch as much as she wants…
And instead, stare at her ass.
Yeah, those leggings should be illegal.
I tilt my head to get a better angle.
Of course, that’s when she finishes and turns around. Her eyes widen at catching me in the act.
“I believe in equality,” I explain calmly. “If you can check me out as much as you want, then so can I. Turn around again.”
Rose splutters. Color blooms on her cheeks. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Am I laughing?” I twirl a finger in the air. “Turn.”
Unwilling to be called a coward, shedoesturn around, twisting just so to look at me over her shoulder. “Are you a butt man, Logan?”
I tilt my head to the other side, committing her curves to memory. Not terribly difficult when her leggings are so tight that I don’t know how she put them on in the first place. “So I am discovering.” I shrug and narrow my eyes. “Are you sure those leggings are legal?”
Blowing a raspberry, she faces forward again. “Thanks for lifting my self esteem, but I need your help to finish decorating your place so I can go get changed.”
With considerable effort, I tear my eyes away from her to observe the changes. There’s a fluffy blanket and a couple of cushions on my couch, all purple. A matching mug sits on the kitchen island, and a beige cardigan’s strewn on the back of a barstool. She has replaced the kitchen towels with hers, and there’s another vase with fake flowers on the sideboard table by the entrance.
While I’m noting all the little things, she approaches with a reusable shopping bag that she offers to me. “Put all this stuff in your bedroom and bathroom.”
I take a peek at the bag and promptly glance up. “Are you sure?”
“We want to be convincing, right? Unless…” She tugs back at the bag. “Maybe you’re not that chummy chummy with your girlfriends?”
I’m not. Like at all. It’s why my girlfriends always left. They all wanted a level of intimacy I can’t give. My more recent dates never even made it to girlfriend status, sparing me from having that conversation in the first place.
Rose is neither. But my mother is a hound and if she detects the slightest whiff that this isn’t normal, she’ll pounce. And probably on Rose.
