Page 36 of I'm Your Guy
It’s the middle of the night, but I’m laughing out loud. The place does, in fact, look great. The rug is soft under my shoes, and it’s tempting to lie down on it.
But I march upstairs like a good boy and hang up my suit. The house is so quiet that I can hear the sound of my zipper when I remove my trousers.
Carter’s note comes back to me, and I snort into the silence. Sportsing.
The weird thing is that I could hear his voice when I read the note. Like he’s already under my skin. So now I’m standing here, grinning like a crazy person.
I am a man with a lot of secrets, and tonight, my biggest one is that coming home to that note was even more exciting than coming home to a very stylish living room.
After a visit with my toothbrush, I get into bed and set my alarm on my phone.
That’s when I notice the text from Carter.
Rigo and I are done painting. Wait. Actually I’m just going to write you a note and leave it in the LR. Later!
I quickly reply.
Got it, thanks.
It’s late. But instead of closing my phone, I reread his brief message, like a weirdo.
Stop it, DiCosta.
Gathering my wits, I press the button that puts my phone to sleep.
Or at least, I try to. But in the messaging app, there’s a little icon in the upper righthand corner of the screen, shaped like a movie camera. And if you happen to brush your thumb over it at 1:16 in the morning, in your exhaustion, you might accidentally initiate a video call.
Which I do.
To make matters worse, I don’t notice right away, because I’ve tossed the phone on the bed. The ringing sound confuses me, but then I realize what I’ve done.
Now I’m lying in bed, mostly naked, staring at the screen in horror as Carter’s face blinks into view.
“Well, hi,” he says, looking amused. “You hate the rug this much? Need me to haul it away before morning?”
I’d answer him, except he’s shirtless, too, and all my brain cells are busy taking in his lean chest. There’s some muscle definition, but he’s not bulky. All that skin. He’s draped his arm casually over his head, pale skin against rumpled red hair…
Hell. He’d asked me a question. I try to dredge it from the depths of my mind. The rug? “N-no,” I stammer, scrambling to sit up. “Sorry. The rug is fine. I, uh, didn’t actually mean to call you.”
His eyes grow amused. “Yeah? Hit that little video button by mistake? That happened to my ex-boyfriend all the time. He was kind of a klutz, though.”
Ex-boyfriend. My brain files that away for some reason. As if I really need to know whether or not Carter is single.
“Sorry,” I say again. I don’t know if I’m apologizing for the call or for the way I’m blatantly staring at his chest. He doesn’t have a lot of chest hair, but it’s reddish and finely textured. I want to pass my hand over his pecs and feel it against my palm.
My cock thickens in my underwear.
I’m a complete mess.
Carter doesn’t seem to notice my distress. “You didn’t wake me up or anything. I was just sitting here scrolling through shower curtains. Do you have any deep thoughts about shower curtains?”
“Uh, no? But why are you still working on this at one in the morning?”
Carter’s smile fades. “Well, I’ve had a stressful few months. My brain is basically a doom loop, and it’s more fun to brainstorm a theme for your bathroom than to think about my future.”
Oh.
I open my mouth to say that I’m pretty sure my bathroom does not require a theme, but something else comes out instead. “Why the doom loop? Are you okay?”
