Page 11 of Life To My Flight

I laid my head on the ground beneath my bed. However, I didn’t stay for long due to the roll of wrapping paper being smashed underneath the weight of my body. Reluctantly, I continued to crawl to the other side.

The first hint that something wasn’t right was the massive pair of boots I saw extended in front of a long pair of muscular legs.

I followed the legs up to see a narrow set of hips sitting on the chase lounge I had next to my bed.

Then my forehead thumped to the ground as Cleo’s serious eyes connected with my own.

“I see you kept my present,” Cleo said as he reached forward and grabbed the alarm out of my hand.

I started to shimmy out from under the bed, and then got slowly up to my knees in between his.

His eyes flared hot, but I didn’t stay there long, pushing quickly to my feet and getting as far away from him as possible and still be in the room.

His eyes went to the short hemline of my shirt and stayed there.

I had, indeed, kept his present.

“It’s the only thing that gets me out of bed on time,” I replied as I gave him my back.

“I know. I couldn’t get you out of bed. However this,” he said as he pointed at the alarm in his hand, “gets you up every time. This is the first time I’ve seen it in use, though. I rather liked the show.”

I was lucky I’d gone to the opposite side of the bed, or he’d have seen that I wasn’t wearing any panties beneath my sleep shirt.

Then I slapped my hand against my head.

His shirt.

His red PJ shirt that felt so soft against my skin that sometimes I imagined it was his fingertips.

“Nice shirt,” he said devilishly.

“Fuck you,” I said as I stomped to the door then slammed it behind me.

I did my usual routine of washing my hair with my head hung over the side of the shower. Then I slicked some mousse and gel in it before letting it hang down my back to dry.

The curly mass was already giving me a tension headache, but that was the problem with having long hair. You either dealt with it, or cut it off.

I’d tried to cut it off.

I’d even gone so far as to be sitting in the salon chair while my hairdresser held scissors in one hand, and the mass of my hair in the other.

Then his voice came back to me.

God I love your hair. Don’t ever cut it. It’s so fucking sexy. He’d said one night after we went on a ride.

Stupidly, I’d told the woman no, and that I was sorry.

I paid her what she would’ve gotten out of me anyway, and never went back.

Even now, six months later, I only ever trimmed it with a pair of my own scissors.

Why?

Because I was a stupid girl.

A fucking stupid, in love with a man who’d never love me back, girl.

After swiping on some mascara, a sheen of lip gloss, and a tiny bit of mascara, I walked out of my bathroom door to find Cleo now laying on my bed.

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