Page 71 of Give & Take

His biceps flex as he lifts another load from the seemingly endless pile. He’s gorgeous in the pink light of early evening, his sweat a glow on his forehead, his hair mussed and sticking to his temples.

I hope Mike sees all of it.

Mike frowns as Raph sets the boards on his shoulder.

“Nice to see you again, buddy,” Raph says as he passes Mike. Then he’s gone again, thundering down the stairs.

Mike’s frown deepens. “Buddy?”

I give Mike my first genuine smile of the night. It was the perfect word to use on him—this close to patronizing, but cloaked in what could be considered simple bro-talk. “Something wrong with that, Mike? Isn’t that what you call your barista? Your tennis coach?”

Mike glares at me. “You paying him for this?”

“Should I?”

Mike huffs. Then he rolls up his sleeves and stalks over to the mess of boards. And to my utter shock and amazement, my ex-husband pitches in.

Later that night, long after the kids are asleep and Mike is gone, I lie in bed tossing and turning. I know I still need to talk to Raph. I keep telling myself it can wait, that it’s ten at night.

But I can see the light from his suite through my window. He’s awake.

Finally I toss my blankets back and get out of bed. Not to talk to him; to close the damn curtains, which are a foot or so apart.

But when I get there, I pause.

His blinds are wide open. Like pulled up and out of the frame so I have a picture-window view into his space. He’s not there, thank God, but I can see his whole studio apartment. The kitchen, with a container of what looks like half-eaten Chinese food on the counter, a beer bottle next to it. I can picture him inhaling his food tonight, hisbody aching in that full-body way you get when you’re working all day.

Or does he even get tired? I’ve seen him chase the girls for hours and not break a sweat.

Across the space, to the right, is his bed. It’s made, but in a rumpled kind of way; the duvet thrown on, pillows not quite neatly stacked.

It’s hot out tonight; all I’m wearing is an oversized t-shirt. Still, I feel my skin prickle with heat staring at the place he sleeps.

I knew, of course. This is my house. I cursed the layout a thousand times over when I was considering hiring him, specifically the windows facing each other.

But since then, I’ve touched myself knowing how close he is. I’ve imagined what he’d look like in that bed, working himself over me, that chain dangling over me.

I’m still standing staring at his bed, my hands on either curtain next to me, when Raph walks into the room, wearing nothing but a towel tied around his waist.

I suck in a breath, backing up and snapping the curtains closed.

Once, when I was a teenager, some friends of mine and I bought aPlaygirlmagazine as a joke, and we all took turns keeping it at our houses. I read that thing cover to cover. I still have the dirty short story memorized. I can still picture the man pressed up against the shower wall.

I have the same burning feeling of naughtiness in my chest now as I did flipping through that magazine with my back against my door late at night.

I press my forehead against the seam of the curtains, my heart clapping against my ribs.

Back away, Lana. Get back into bed.

But I’m so very weak. Because God help me, but I open the curtains again. I do it more than a few inches, to the way it was, because I amnotgoing to be that perverted woman peering through a crack in the drapes, absolutely violating Raph’s privacy. I won’t be a peeping…Tina.

But the moment I look over there, I see Raph, putting away the food. Setting the bottle in the recycling box. Stretching as he walks across the kitchen, making the towel slip low enough I can see where the trail of dark hair on his stomach widens again into a part I’m absolutely not meant to see.

I scrunch my eyes shut, backing away.

I’ll just open my eyes and shut the curtains again.

I open my eyes, realizing a moment too late I should have reversed the order of these actions.

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