Page 51 of Space Junk: Houston, We Have a Hottie
The closet door is open. It’s a walk-in, so I can’t see into its depths, but just inside there’s a pile of laundry on the floor. The rest of the room is quite tidy. No clothes strewn about or dirty dishes or clutter.
My dress and jacket lie across a chair near what I assume is the bathroom door. In the light of day, I’m not too keen on putting that dress back on. Especially without liquid courage or girl posse peer pressure. I still, listening for Flynn, but don’t hear anything. Slipping out of bed, I tiptoe toward the dresser. Surely after last night I’m entitled to steal a T-shirt and maybe some boxers.
I pause. Maybe not. I mean, Flynn hadn’t been there to say good morning as I’d woken up. Plus, my clothes are laid out for me—maybe that’s his way of telling me to get the hell out.
Holy crap. Is it happening again? Is he done now that we’ve had sex?
Panting, I sit back down on the bed and struggle to slow my breathing. Once I’m seventy-five percent I’m not going to hyperventilate, I begin to process reasons not to overreact.
One, I decided last night that Flynn wasnotBrian.
Two, I like Flynn. Getting over the fact that he’s too hot for me by half, he’s sweet. He’s also a caring brother, a talented mechanic. And he likes my glasses.
Three, I’m a full-grown woman. I’m a NASA engineer and a freaking genius. I can handle this.
And four, if Flynn does turn out to be a douche, I’ll just leave a scathing review of his shop on Yelp like the mature woman I am.
Feeling calmer, I push back onto my feet, snag my dress and head for the unopened door.
Yep, bathroom.
I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror. A whole lot of natural light helps illuminate the evidence from last night’s activities. Beard burn on my neck and oh, wow, on my thighs too. Sheesh, I have freaking hickeys on my collar bone.
I’m almost thirty and have hickeys.
Although, considering I’ve never had a hickey before, I’m sort of pleased with myself.
I shrug the dress on over my head and survey the rest of the damage. My hair is... big. No other way to describe it that doesn’t involve words like rat’s nest or tumbleweeds.
I find a bottle of mouthwash in the cabinet that I put to good use and scrub my face with water to get rid of any leftover makeup. My skin feels tight, but it’s better than facing Flynn for the first time after a night of body-tingling sex with raccoon eyes.
Back in the bedroom I pull on my jacket. In a crowded, dimly lit bar, my dress looked okay. In the fresh, annoying light of day, I don’t even think it could classify as a nightgown, let alone appropriate for public viewing.
I jump when my phone vibrates. Patting down the front of my body, I find it in my jacket pocket. Work email notifications. I can check those later. But what catches my eye are the many texts from last night.
Rose:your blow job shot skills are legendary!
Rose:check the pantry: no glove, no love
Trish:ignore Rose. Have fun, sugar
I click on a series of pictures Rose sent from last night. There are various selfies of us making silly faces, one picture of an unsuspecting Trish, a close up of my cleavage, and then one of Flynn and me dancing.
Against a background blur of twirling dancers, Flynn and I seem alone on the dance floor. In profile, my head is thrown back in laughter. This is the moment I realized I’d been dancing throughout my whole orbital resonance lecture. I appear happy, light, carefree..
But it isn’t the freeze frame of me that captures my attention. It’s Flynn.
His eyes are intent. Focused only on me. A smile plays on his lips as he holds me against him. He looks…captivated. Captivated byme.
You know that old saying about a picture being worth a thousand words? I’m not sure I could come up with a thousand to describe this candid shot, but the expression on Flynn’s face makes me feel better about facing him this morning. I slide my phone back in my pocket, take a deep breath, and metaphorically pull up my big girl panties, seeing as I still don’t have any, before making my way down the hallway and into the kitchen.
Holy Mercury.
Flynn’s in a tight-fitting, long sleeve Henley, the sleeves pushed up, low riding gray sweatpants and bare feet. He’s working a pan and spatula over the cooktop. And if that isn’t enough to cause heart palpitations, his hair is all mussed and his lips are pursed to one side. The morning scruff gracing his chin reminds me of the beard burn between my legs. I feel my face flush just as he looks up at me, spatula in hand. His face is blank, as if I’d awakened him from a daydream. Then he blinks, a slow smile creeping up his face.
“Holy Mercury?”
Crapola. I said that out loud? I open my mouth to—
