Page 69 of Things I Overshared
I’m counting Near Death by Heavy Backpack
It was dangerously heavy.
And thank you.
Would tea with all of us really have been so bad?
He doesn’t type a response, which I take as a big fat yes. Is his issue the group and the conversing, in general, or tea with me and all my babbling? Is he afraid I’d ask too many personal questions? A legitimate concern, for sure. I’d try to hold myself back, but once I get on a roll, conversations get carried away from me, by me.
I sigh, frustrated with myself. If only I was more like Sadie, even-keeled between two extremes. She enjoys people, in small groups and large settings, but she can also sit and write alone for days. I shudder at that thought as I take my clipboard and head to the next set of boxes.
________
I fumble into the door of the suite after dinner, totally exhausted. I surprised myself with the desire to skip dinner altogether, which must have everything to do with my aching feet and nothing to do with the silent man who shares my temporary apartment.
I steal a glance at his door, wondering about his day: What did he have for dinner? Is he watching TV in there? Or reading a book? What book? Is he on his bed shirtless and in sweatpants? Does heownsweatpants? I swallow, suddenly parched.
I head to the kitchen and—
“Ah!” I close my eyes and put a hand to my chest, panting. “You scared me! How do you not make any noise? Are you even breathing?” I reopen my eyes and wish I hadn’t. Because there he is—silent, shirtless, and dripping with sweat, water in one hand, phone in the other.
“Sorry.” I barely hear his reply because I am lost in the ridges along his torso. So many of them, so defined, each one glistening. I bite my bottom lip and try to look away but instead imagine myself licking the sweat off him.WHAT! Who thinks that?! Sweat! Gross!
“Y-You work out at night too?” I whisper. I still haven’t managed to look at his face; there are just so many other interesting places for my eyes to find, like the top curve of his bicep, the waistband of his shorts.
“Not normally,” he says, and I realize from his voice that he’s smiling. I look at his face, which is grinning. Smug, even. And why wouldn’t he be? I’m ogling him. Straight-up ogling.
Insert nerves.
“Oh. Yeah, you seem much more like a morning runner. Like at fivea.m.sharp or something. Every single day. Same path. Probably like fifteen miles every time, same exact pace, super fast, totally.”
“Do I?” He’s still smug. It’s the most relaxed and what—maybe happy?—that I’ve ever seen him.
“Mhm.” I swallow again. Right! Water! I make my way toward the fridge next to where he’s leaning. “Just coming in here for a water. Worked up a sweat at the convention center. I mean, not a real sweat, like you, obviously, or I’d be all wet. I mean! Like, drenched. I mean. You know what I mean.
“It’s not a good look on women. Like, you can stand there looking like a warrior, as if you just fought an entire army by yourself. Very Thor, you know? But on women, it’s just gross. Like after Zumba, I’m super disgusting. Have you ever tried Zumba?” I finally make it to the fridge, and he doesn’t move out of the way. He just absorbs the space of the entire small kitchen with his frame as heat rolls off him in waves. I get a water bottle out of the fridge and close it, and his expression is the same: contained, mild amusement.
“No, of course you haven’t tried Zumba! Ha! What am I thinking. It’s a dance class, and we all know how you feel about dancing. Not to mention, it’s a group activity, so I’m going to guess that’s a hard pass for you. Very hard.” I choke on the last two words, looking right at his pecs as they tumble out. I chug my water, hoping it will save me from myself.Deflect, Samantha! Deflect for heaven’s sake!
“So? Was your day a little bit fun, after all?” I ask. He tilts his head back and forth to mean so-so. “C’mon, it was, admit it. I don’t even know why you needed saving today. By the way, it was just us girls, who you already know, and your brothers seem like tons of fun.” He grunts, but his expression changes, like I’ve said the wrong thing. I try to go back to our usual teasing. “You never said thank you for my save, either.” I raise my eyebrows.
He pushes off from the counter. “Thank you, Miss Canton.” He says it tightly, and then he’s through his door. What? What the heck was that?! One minute he’s beaming salty sex rays at me with his grin, the next he’s as cold as a blizzard blowing right out the door.
I call bull. He liked the way I stared at him. Something about peopling or his brothers set him off, but he’s just being a coward. That’s it. New goal. He’s not the only one who can prance around half naked.
I have my wiles and I know how to use them and I know he’s not immune. He held me in his arms last night, tight and firm. He called me Samantha, more than once. It was real and it was hot and dammit, I want more of that. More of my name on his soft lips, more of his stare boring into me, more of his hands on my skin.
CommenceOperation Melt.
Chapter 21
I hear Emerson rummaging in the kitchen, and I almost sprint through the living room, slowing to a normal pace when I get to the kitchen.
“Morning,” I say as I casually walk to the fridge and bend over to grab a water. I can feel his eyes on me, and I force myself not to smile or blush or cough or react in any way. Take those wiles, Emerson Clark.
I am wearing a tight workout tank over yoga leggings, the pair that has a bit of gathering over my butt crack. They’re called Ass Leggings online, and for good reason. I don’t know if the Adonis next to me—who is in a perfect button-up shirt, open at the top to show a teasing hint of skin, over well-fitted slacks—is a butt man, but in these tights, I’d bet any guy with a heartbeat is a butt man.
I close the fridge, and instead of giving him a normal berth of personal space, I stay within inches of touching him.
