Page 9 of Wide-Eyed
“I mean, you’re welcome here. I’m a man of my word.” He pushed his hair off his forehead and I tried not to stare at the way his bicep flexed. “But I don’t have the spare room ready for guests, and Dad’s place is too small.”
“It’s okay. I booked a hotel.”
At first Mike looked relieved. Then alarmed. “Does Caroline know you’re here?”
“I left her a message.”
She was probably too busy being in love to read it, though.
“What Caroline doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” I added brightly.
Mike’s eyes took on a look I didn’t recognize.
Almost leisurely, his gaze fell down to study my outfit. But he didn’t do it the way fashion people did, with a quick glance down to your toes then back up again. Mike assessed me, his eyes running over me like water in the shower. He was leaning over the counter now, and my cheeks felt hot.
It was commonplace for my outfits to be noticed, but Mike wasn’t looking at what I was wearing. He was looking at me. Under his gaze, my head felt lighter, my breath quicker. I was suddenly very aware that I was a woman, and that wasn’t something I ever thought about—which was so cis of me, I know.
Mike’s perusal stalled when he got to my nails. They were long and pink, embellished with little jewels and intricate paintings of Marie from the Aristocats. One had a little chain swinging from it. My nail woman in the West Village was a magician at statement nails, and she’d made a bunch of press-ons for me for when I had to travel for Bossi.
To break the sudden tension, I wiggled my nails at Mike and reached to pick up the band-aid I’d chosen. But my acrylic tips glanced off the surface, unable to get purchase. If Mike would just let it go, I could slide it off the counter—I had about a million life hacks for living life with long nails—but he didn’t budge.
Instead, he said, “For fuck’s sake,” and came around the counter. “Up.” He patted the countertop.
“What?”
“Be quick about it. Having your ass on a table is tapu.”
“My ass?—”
“Any ass, but I’m not getting on my knees for you, so shut up and get on the counter.”
“Why?”
“For fuck’s sake,” Mike said again. Before I could gather myself, he put his hands on either side of my waist and lifted me onto the counter.
The squeak that fell out of my mouth was humiliating.
“Mike!”
He tore into the band-aid wrapper with his teeth and spat the spare bit of paper. I suddenly had to squeeze my eyes shut. Not because I was in pain, but because I could vividly imagine him doing that same thing with a condom wrapper.
A flush mottled my neck, and anyone looking at me would be able to tell what I was thinking.
Mike carefully applied the band-aid over my scrape and smoothed out the edges so they would adhere properly. “There. Done.”
“You just—” I had to swallow and start again. “You just lifted me. Like it was nothing.”
I’d never been manhandled like that. Like anyone in New York would just pick a girl up.
“Not my first rodeo, baby.” He shot me a wink.
Luckily, I was spared having to think of a reply because Mike was called into the kitchen to consult on a birthday cake issue.
I slid back to the ground in a daze.
Two thoughts were swirling around the basin of my brain.
Maybe I had more sex appeal than the internet thought.
