Page 75 of Romance Is Dead

We tiptoed up the stairs, down the hall, and into the spare room, which was thankfully as empty as it was the day before. I closed the door behind us, leaving it open a crack, and turned on the light.

The room was just as we’d left it, and there were only so many places I could have thrown the pile of synthetic hair. As I glanced around, I tried not to lose myself in memories—how he’d come up behind me, gripping my hips with need. Or how he’d splayed me on the sofa before burying his face between my legs. The way he’d moaned when he did it.

I shook my head, wiping away the images. Teddy was already peering around, clearly unaffected by what had happened here between us.

“You start on that side, and I’ll take this one,” I said, moving toward the far corner. It was unlikely that I would have tossed it behind the TV that had inexplicably been parked there, but you never knew. Maybe my arm was extra powerful when I was horny.

“Roger,” Teddy said. He moseyed over to a clothes rack, eyeing the garments that hung from the rail.

“I guarantee it’s not hanging there.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Have you looked already?”

“No, but I know for a fact I did not take the time to hang it up.” I bent to peer behind an armchair that looked like it was from the 1970s.

“And why’s that?”

I didn’t have to see his face to know he was smirking, so I promptly ignored him. If I wedged myself completely behind the chair, I could claim plausible deniability. And if I found the wig, even better. But all I found was dust bunnies.

“We haven’t talked about it, you know.” He said it softly, all the joking and teasing out of his voice.

I froze, still wedged behind the armchair. He wanted to talk about this now? I finished scooting out from behind the chair, praying I’d misheard. He was still next to the clothes rack, fiddling with a hanger.

“Do we need to?” I kept my voice light. Casual. Not at all panicky.

“I don’t know. I guess not. I had a good time, though.”

My heart clenched. I’d had a good time, too. Of course I had. But talking about it made it real, and if it was real, then it would have consequences. Frantically searching for a way to change the subject, I noticed a small piece of wood stuck in his hair.

“Do you have a wood chip on your head?”

Teddy’s hand swiped over his hair, quickly finding the offending splinter. “Oh. Yeah.”

I waited for him to elaborate. He did not. “Why?”

“I went to a woodworking class today.”

“A woodworking class? They have those?”

“Sure they do.” Teddy turned his attention to a large chest that looked like it’d crossed the ocean in the days of theTitanic. “Haven’t you ever felt the urge to make something out of wood?”

Sidestepping the obvious innuendo, I moved to the sofa. “Can’t say that I have. Is this an urge you feel regularly?”

“It’s relaxing. And it takes my mind off things. You can’t be anxious about making a phone call when you’re trying to make sure you don’t saw your finger off.”

I laughed. “That’s true. What did you make today?”

“Just a picture frame. They were only offering a beginner’s class.”

“So you’re an expert, then?” I teased.

“I wouldn’t say that.” He smiled, obviously pleased. “But I have been doing it since I was, like, six.”

“Six? I didn’t know woodworking tools were approved to be used by children.”

“Oh, they’re definitely not. My grandpa kept catching me sneaking into his shed to play with his tools and decided it’d be easier to teach me how to use them safely than to teach me how to leave them alone.” He chuckled. “My mom hated it. She was so pissed when she came to pick me up and found me using a saw that was almost as big as I was.”

“I bet.”

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