Page 89 of Falling into Place
Damn, this man was adorable. “Sure.”
He grabbed her wrist and pulled her in for a kiss. “Let me grab a few things.”
It was remarkably difficult to focus with Brooks sitting a few feet away, but she managed it for the entire length ofThe English Patient.
He didn’t shed a tear.
“Something’s wrong with you,” she said as the credits began.
“Probably,” he agreed. “But I’m not the one with color-coded bookshelves and appliances on my counter lined up by size.”
“You should see my closet,” she quipped, and immediately regretted it when he rose from the couch.
“Oooh, yes. I do want to see that.”
She pushed her chair away from the desk and lunged for him. “No!”
In the quiet apartment she realized how loud and desperate that had sounded.
He stilled and slowly turned to face her. He tilted his head and blinked. “Why? Whatcha got in there?”
She giggled nervously. Smoothed her shirt and picked at her thumbnail. “What? Nothing. I just ... I’m a stylist. It’s my Zen space. I’m very, um, particular about it, is all.”
He lifted his chin a notch, eyeing her. “I won’t touch anything, promise. I’ll take off my shoes and wash my hands and cross myself before I go in.”
She narrowed her gaze. “You’re making fun of me.”
“You’re hiding something.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Then let me check out your closet. You’ve been in mine and examined every single thing I own—” His eyes went wide and he sucked in a breath, his mouth dropping open. “That’s it.”
She said nothing.
He pointed toward her room. “My jeans are in there, aren’t they?”
She hesitated a second too long. “No.”
“Carly Porter. Don’t lie to me.”
She tucked her lips between her teeth.
He shook his head slowly, a grave expression on his face as he made his dramatic announcement. “I’m going in.”
At this point, there was no use trying to stop him. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she followed him into her room, where Oreo and Pepper had claimed opposite corners, curled up, and were completely ignoring each other.
She sat on her bed, grabbed a navy throw pillow and hugged it to her chest, waiting.
Several minutes later he emerged from her walk-in closet ...
. . . wearing those atrocious pants.
He stopped in the doorway, sliding his palms this way and that along the denim at his waist and down his thighs. “So. Damn. Comfortable.”
She wouldn’t normally say this about a client’s clothes, but they were past that and the flash of challenge in his eye couldn’t go unheeded. “So. Fucking. Hideous.”
He was fighting a smile. “Wow. That bad?”
