Page 16 of When It's Us
My skin flushes, and I blink up at him, my mouth open to speak, but nothing comes out. Because my brain seems to lose all sorts of function when he’s this close to me and Iknewthat he was listening outside my door.
The corner of his lips tips up. “Get ready. I’ll be back in two hours,” he says and strides for the door.
His ass in those jeans ought to be illegal. Goddamnit.
You know what?Fuck it.I’m Ginger fucking Westbrook and I can do this without falling on his dick. I’m not an animal. I can exercise self-control.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I glare at his retreating back.
“I’ll be ready in one, Bigfoot. I’m sure you have a terribly busy schedule of dragging your knuckles across half of California and grooming your man bun, but try to be on time, mmkay?” I call out.
His bark of laughter is the last thing I hear before the door closes behind him.
Ginger
Fussingwithmywildmane of curls, I chuck the comb down and blow out a heavy breath. My phone taunts me from face down on the counter top. Even his name popping up with a text telling me he’d be back in thirty had my nerves spiking, followed by an annoying flutter in my belly.
I’m telling myself that feeling is excitement for an adventure and not the fact that I’ll be back in the orbit of the most annoyingly gorgeous man I’ve ever met in a matter of minutes.
But I’d be the world’s biggest liar.
The memory of the last time I saw him shoves itself to the front of my mind. The frigid January air that made me shiver, him above me, larger than life, and that sexy, lazy smile tugging the corners of his lips up. His long lean fingers callused and so fucking talented. Feet planted wide, a cocky quirk to his brow as he tucked his softening cock back into his suit pants. Me, kneeling, panting at his feet, lips and cheeks flushed red from taking him down my throat.
The slam of a car door jolts me back to the warmth of my bedroom. I blow out a shaky breath and steel my spine, to heft my garment bag and two suitcases off the bed. I click the handles intoplace and with one last glance around, leave my room, trailing the suitcases behind me, laptop slung over my shoulder.
In the entryway, I tug back the curtains on the daylight window by the front door. I can see the back end of his orange VW with the back door is lifted, revealing the interior.
The one time I saw Hutch’s “house” was almost a year ago, and even though I’d given him shit for living in a van—who does that anyway—I never did see the interior. But from my vantage point, it looks like it’s been remodeled, and surprisingly, nearly brand-new inside. Clean, even. Thank God for small favors.
And then he’s there, bathed in early afternoon sunlight. He’s just as gorgeous as I remember. His long hair is pulled into a knot on top of his head, but it’s messy and floppy, so undeniably Hutch. His shoulders and broad back are literally drool worthy, his bronzed skin and intricate tattoos on his arms on display in the black T-shirt he wears like a second skin. It allows me a delicious view of his biceps and forearms as he shuffles things around, and he somehow looks bigger than he did the last time I saw him.
Every part of this man was made to turn me on, and a damp heat breaks out over the skin on my neck.
Okay, so, he’s good-looking. Who cares? There are a lot of good-looking men out there and I don’t find myself practically salivating with one look.
I let my gaze roam over him. He’s not eventhathot.
“Get a grip,” I mutter under my breath.
Pulling open the door, I step out but keep my back to him while I lock up the house. When I turn back, he tips his chin up at me in greeting, amusement in his eyes before they drop to take in my luggage and my arms weighted down with more belongings.
His eyebrows lift a fraction, and he steps away from the van, crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes take a long sweep of my body, his expression tight-lipped like he’s holding back.
“What?” I ask a little defensively, lugging my suitcases behind me and stopping right in front of him, ready for whatever smug shit is about to fly from his mouth.
His voice is deep and smooth like velvet on my skin when he speaks. “You leave anything in your closet?”
My eyebrows pinch in as I glare at him, then drop my eyes to the suitcases at my feet. Okay, maybe I overpacked a bit, but now that I’m leaving a week early, I’ll definitely need more.
“Just becauseyoudress like you recently rolled out of bed doesn’t mean we all do,” I snark, flipping my hair over my shoulder.
He huffs out a breath as a wry grin tugs up his lips. “If I’d just rolled out of bed, I’d be standing here in nothing but a smile.”
My lips tug up a bit and I have to fight against the image of what that would look like, because damn.
“Very funny.” My eyes flick to the van and back to him. “Where do I put my things?”
He nods to the open door, indicating the space between what I assume is a fold-out bed and a worn brown leather duffel bag. “Right there on the floor.”
