Page 24 of Wallflower
The last load to go through is my underwear. Half of it is made up of the sensible white sets I prefer during the day. The other half is a rainbow of the soft, silky pieces I’ve been wearing at night.
I’ve got dozens of sets like these: bright, pretty, some of them sexy pieces I’ve never worn because I was saving them for the day I didn’t live with my dad. Joke’s on me, I suppose. When I started collecting lingerie all those years ago, I never imagined I’d be twenty-eight and still waiting to take them for a spin. Butthey were the first thing I put in my suitcase when I packed for Silver Leaf.
I navigate my way to the “delicates” program, add the underwear to the drum, and close the door. It’s a longer cycle than a standard wash, so after I’ve folded the first load and stuffed the wet items into the dryer, I take what’s clean back to my room and disappear into the home office once again.
When I return to the basement, the washer is still spinning, but there are dry clothes to fold so I busy myself with those. There’s something soothing about the act of laundry, I decide, when it’s not done in a rush in a communal utility room.
The sound of heavy footsteps outside the door straightens my spine, and with butterflies in my stomach, I twist toward the doorway just as Chord walks in, the knees of his jeans covered in mud, his boots caked with it too, his ridged abs flashing and flexing as he drags his filthy white shirt over his head. Dirt streaks his forearms and neck, and once his t-shirt is over his head, he freezes at the sight of me.
“I didn’t know you were in here.”
“I’m not.” I force myself to stare at the floor instead of the fine trail of dark hair leading from his belly button into the waist of his jeans. “I mean, I’m nearly done.”
The washing machine beeps to signal the end of the cycle, and Chord tosses his shirt over one shoulder as he crosses the room and opens a cupboard with a basket inside that looks like the receptacle for a laundry chute. It’s full of clothes, and Chord heaves it out before closing the cupboard door.
Oh, no. No, no, no. This cannot be happening.
“Um.” I shoot a panicked glance at the multicolored jumble of lingerie visible through the transparent door of the washer. “Do you have laundry? I could do it for you if you like?”
Chord spares me a sideways glance as he reaches into the overhead cupboard and takes out the detergent. “Housekeeping isn’t in your job description.”
“I don’t mind. I like doing laundry. It’s relaxing. Satisfying. You know. Uh, fun.”
His brow furrows with confusion—or is it concern? I’m not surprised. I sound like a lunatic. A dirty-clothes-huffing lunatic.
“I can do my own laundry,” he says. After a pause, he adds, “But thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I wring my hands and glance at the washer again, then back at Chord waiting on the other side of the room with his large arms crossed over his glorious chest and an expectant expression on his stony face.
Right. The machine is done. I need to leave. I’ve got a stack of dry, clean clothes to carry upstairs, plus an armful of sexy, lacy lingerie that nobody’s ever seen but me. Piece of cake.
Just do it. Drag those damp panties out of the washer and run!
With a purposeful and probably peculiar-looking nod, I lean over to put my body between Chord and the contents of the machine, yank open the door, and haul out my underwear. My heart races and my hands grow clammy as I drop a pair of white cotton panties and a pale pink sports bra twice before I’ve balanced my cargo securely in the crook of one elbow. When I’m certain I can stand without losing anything, I straighten and turn around.
Chord’s focus darts up to my eyes, and I blink. Was he… was he looking at my ass? By his steely look of disinterest, I desperately hope not because if hewaschecking me out, he’s not particularly pleased with what he sees.
“I’ll just take the rest of this stuff and get out of your way,” I tell him, crossing to his side of the room where my clean clothes are stacked on the marble counter.
I have to deposit my underwear next to them before I can maneuver my t-shirts and jeans into a tower between my forearm and my chin, and it wobbles when I scoop my lingerie against me with the other arm.
A lacy red bra escapes, and I drop everything to retrieve it with a mortified swipe, then try again to perfect my balancing act.
It’s not working, and I’m starting to sweat when behind me, Chord clears his throat and silently offers me an empty laundry basket.
I accept it with a murmured “Thank you,” dipping my chin to hide a rush of embarrassment that I didn’t think of it first.
I load the stack of clothes first, stuff my underwear into the gaps around it, and heft the basket with two hands.
I’m nearly free and clear in record time when a pointed cough from Chord pulls me up short. I know before I turn around that this isn’t good.
Lying there on the floor, equal distance between us is a coral-colored bra and a pair of black silk bikini-cut briefs.
My cheeks flame as we both stare at them, equally stunned into immobility.
I wouldn’t mind if a nice, big hole opened in the ground right about now.
