Page 40 of Courageous Hearts

Bo

Blue.

I smile at Jameson’s back as he drags me up the stairs. We stopped long enough to grab my backpack, and then the pair of us went straight for the second floor. Jameson hasn’t let go of my hand once.

He leads me into his bedroom, flicking the light on as we pass through the doorway. His calming cerulean room greets us, serene like a day at the beach. The blue walls, gauzy white curtains, sandy colored furniture, and the watercolor print of a sailboat on rolling seas hanging above his headboard.

Jameson tugs me over to his bed, and with a smirk that’s all tease, he lets go of my hand to pull his suspenders off his shoulders. He begins to unbutton his shirt next.

“Gonna torture me durin’ this talk?” I ask.

“Just getting comfortable,” he claims. “You should do the same.”

“Mhm,” I reply, watching as he tugs the tails of his shirt loose and slides the material off his arms.

I caught him shirtless before, the last time I was here, but that was a quick glimpse of his bare back and averted peeks of his chest. This time, I don’t drag my eyes away, and I’m greeted by strong, broad muscles and a hint of dark hair that leads from Jameson’s chest down the center of his stomach.

He’s thicker than me, a touch taller, too, but he doesn’t have a gym-bound physique. There’s a natural quality to Jameson, and I love it all the more. I want to curl into him and never let go.

“You are staying, right?” he asks, drawing my attention back to his face.

“Yes,” I reply simply, hitching my pack onto the bed and opening it up. I grab my little toiletries bag I keep for on-the-go and retreat toward Jameson’s bathroom. “Be right back,” I call over my shoulder.

Inside the bathroom, I take care of my needs quickly and brush my teeth, glad for the minty refresher and hoping I’ll have more excuses to kiss Jameson tonight. Or rather, this morning, seeing as it’s already past one. When I get back to his bedroom, Jameson is sitting on top of his fluffy white comforter in a pair of sweats. Knowing Jameson didn’t seem to mind last time when I borrowed his clothes, I make my way to his wardrobe.

Running my hands over the beautifully ornate wood, I ask the question I wondered since I was first here. “Why not a dresser?”

The choice of furniture seems ridiculously old school, and even though it’s obvious this is an older house, Jameson’s possessions inside of it are all newer pieces. Except for this. This looks like something out of a vintage catalogue.

The inside of the wardrobe is primarily composed of shelving, but there are two big pull-out drawers at the bottom. His clothes are folded neatly inside where I would’ve expected there to be a rack for hung items. But I guess with a closet nearby, he likely didn’t need additional vertical space.

Jameson is quiet, and when I look over my shoulder, his head is down and he’s picking at something on his leg.

“Jameson?” I ask softly.

“I always tell people it was my grandfather’s and that he left it in the house,” he says, looking up at me, a bit of a sardonic twist to his lips.

“But that’s not the truth?” I surmise.

“No. I bought it myself. I was, ah, a little bit obsessed with The Chronicles of Narnia when I was a kid,” he says.

I think that over. “That’s the story with the children goin’ through the wardrobe into a magical land, right?”

Jameson nods, and he looks so cute, and a little bit nervous, sitting there waiting on my reaction, that I can’t help but smile.

Jameson groans, rolling his head back. “No, don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” I ask, pulling open the bottom drawer of the wardrobe where I know from experience his most comfortable, worn clothes are.

“Like I’m cute. Like I’m a puppy you want to pet.”

It is adorable, his admission. The attachment to that childhood story. But I want to do so much more than pet him.

I hitch up an eyebrow, looking over my shoulder as I straighten up and drop my pants, the forced bravado paying off when Jameson’s gaze drops to my ass. His breath catches, and feeling bold under his stare, I peel off my shirt before slowly pulling one of his over my head. It falls to my hips, partially obscuring my lacy briefs, and Jameson blows out a long breath. I grin to myself as I tug on a pair of his sleep pants, even though my cheeks feel hot.

“I didn’t know,” he says softly.

I close the doors of the wardrobe before turning around. “Didn’t know what?” I ask, stepping over to the bed. I toss my backpack onto the floor before taking its place. It feels easy climbing atop Jameson’s mattress, even with his heated stare watching my every move. He makes me feel at home.

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