Page 31 of Revelry
He finished typing and closed my laptop, pushing it forward a little before he stood. As he towered over the kitchen island, his eyes were hard on Rev, who was purring under the scratch of my nails on his neck. When Anderson moved to round the kitchen island, I thought he was going to leave, but instead he knelt next to me, hand reaching out toward Rev.
My feline companion appraised Anderson’s hand at first, sniffing his fingers before nudging into them. Anderson ran his hand over Rev’s head and down his arching back, purring with approval.
I relaxed a little, thankful he hadn’t stormed off again.
“Do you have any pets?” I asked, reaching my own hand toward Rev to give him extra attention. He took turns butting his head into each of our hands, croaking a meow out every now and then.
“No.”
“Have you ever had any?”
He shook his head and I nodded, watching him pet Rev.
“Do you want one?”
Anderson chuckled. “I don’t really have time for one.”
“That makes sense,” I said, though I wasn’t really sure it did. I didn’t know much about Anderson or his schedule or when he was home. “So you work a lot then?”
“All day, every day.”
“Sounds exhausting. Do you ever take a day off?”
He paused at that, pulling his hand back to dust it against the other one. “Sometimes.”
Man of many words.
“I’m taking you away from other jobs,” I pointed out as he turned to face me, both of us still kneeling in the middle of the kitchen. We were close, his nose pointed down at my own, his fingers nearly touching my knee. “You should let me pay you, Anderson.”
“No,” he said simply, but this time he smirked, just a little, barely enough for me to notice.
Ass.
I scrunched my nose, eyes narrowed. “Fine.” I popped up from the floor and Rev rubbed against Anderson’s leg once more before sauntering off. “If you won’t take my money, I’ll just have to pay you in musical entertainment.”
His brows shot up his forehead and he braced his hand on his knee and stood. “Musical entertainment?”
I nodded, grinning mischievously as I backed up to the island and pressed the power button on my speaker. I wasted no time, turning on my music without seeing what song was next on shuffle. When Mariah Carey’s “Fantasy” filled the cabin, I smiled wider, grabbing a wooden spoon from the canister next to the coffee pot.
I twirled, singing along to the background singers as the intro played, and as soon as Mariah’s voice came on, I swayed my hips and moved my feet along the kitchen floor, lip syncing with everything I had.
Anderson ran a hand over his jaw, smiling as his eyes trailed my body. That look lit my skin on fire, searing a trail that started at my ankles and raced up between my thighs. I ignored them as best I could and focused on my performance.
I pulled my hair free from the clip I’d thrown it in while sketching, swinging it around just as the chorus came on. Anderson crossed his arms over his chest, biceps bulging and jaw tight as he fought not to laugh. But I was on a mission to break him—I crooned louder and walked as seductively as I could toward him, free hand running the length of my tank top down to my leggings and back up, lifting it just enough to show the bottom of my stomach before I ran it back through my hair. His eyes were hungry, gaze intense, and I stopped when my chest was nearly touching his forearms where they sat over his.
Anderson swallowed, watching me, and when his eyes locked on mine I stopped singing as I tried to remember how to breathe. He was so hard, every inch of him—his muscles, his stare, the line of his jaw, the walls around his heart. But when I thrusted the spoon toward him, I saw them crack, even if just a tiny sliver.
Mariah kept singing, and I waggled my eyebrows, pushing the spoon a little closer.
Anderson laughed, shaking his head and taking one full step back. “I should have taken the money.”
He grabbed his toolbox off the counter and walked through the front door, turning back when he was on the porch to find me singing again. I winked and he shook his head again, descending the stairs with a trace of a smile that satisfied me more than him letting me pay him to work on the cabin would have.
Maybe having Anderson around every day wouldn’t be so bad after all.
And so became my new normal.
Anderson met me at my doorstep every morning at eight o’clock sharp. I wasn’t sure if it was because he wanted to or because he was humoring me, but he’d start every day drinking a cup of coffee at my island. Most mornings we were quiet—him looking over his plans for the day while I read my book—and sometimes he would answer my questions with a few words instead of just grunts.
