Page 61 of Her Name in Red
I reach for her body wash, flipping the cap open and taking a sniff. It smells like her—woody and dark, not overly sweet like most women I’ve known. The label says something about sandalwood and black pepper. Of course she wouldn't use something that smells like fucking vanilla cupcakes.
Working it into a lather between my palms, I start running them over my chest, my arms, my abs. Using her soap feels weirdly intimate, like I'm covering myself in her scent. Marking myself with her.
Her shampoo is in a simple black bottle with no label. I squeeze a dollop into my palm and work it through my hair, scrubbing hard at my scalp. The smell is subtle.
Rinsing quickly, I’m eager to be done, to get back to her before she wakes up alone and decides I'm not worth the trouble.
I wrap a towel around my waist and step back into her bedroom. Maren hasn't moved, still curled on her side, breathing deep and even.
Finding my underwear and jeans crumpled near the foot of her bed where I'd dropped them earlier, I snatch them up. The denim is stiff and cold against my still-damp skin as I pull it on, not bothering with a shirt yet. My phone chimes from the kitchen alerting me to the delivery.
I rush toward the door. The last thing I need is some asshole delivery guy pounding on the door, waking Maren froma peaceful sleep. She'd probably kick us both out—me for letting it happen, him for existing in her space.
Stepping into the hallway, I wait for the guy to come up the stairs.
The delivery guy steps out with two large bags, looking confused as he checks his phone.
“Hey,” I call out quietly, waving him over. “That for 3B?”
He gives me a once-over—shirtless, wet hair, probably looking like I just crawled out of someone's bed, which I fucking did. His expression shifts from confusion to understanding, and he nods.
“Yeah, man. Delivery for Rhodes?”
I take the bags from him, the smell of spices and coconut milk wafting up. “That's me. Thanks.”
He turns and leaves, and I walk back into the apartment, closing the door with my foot as I carry the food and unpack the containers on her countertop.
The smell hits me immediately—spicy, fragrant, mouth-watering. My stomach growls in response. When was the last time I ate? Breakfast, maybe? It was definitely before class, so it’s been entirely too long.
I arrange the containers in a neat line, grabbing plates from her cabinet and setting them beside the food. The domesticity of the gesture isn't lost on me. Here I am, half-naked in Maren Marino's kitchen, setting out dinner like some kind of fucking house pet.
That's what I am, really. A wild animal trying to play domestic, bringing her food, creating a nest, doing whatever it takes to stay in her orbit. It's pathetic. It's desperate, and I don’t give a shit.
I'm still arranging the takeout boxes when I hear her. I don't turn around right away, letting the anticipation build in mychest like I'm some lovesick teenager instead of a grown-ass man who's missed practice for this woman.
“Why the hell do I smell Thai food?”
Her voice is raspy from sleep, that low, smoky tone that makes my skin tighten. I turn around slowly, leaning back against the counter to take her in.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Maren stands in the doorway of her kitchen, hair mussed from sleep, wearing nothing but a worn St. James University tank top and maroon panties. The tank rides up just enough to show a sliver of pale skin at her hip. The sight hits me like a physical blow, knocking the air right out of my lungs.
This is how I want to remember her—not in class or her cheerleading uniform, not naked and writhing beneath me—just like this. Half-asleep, guard down, looking soft despite all her sharp edges. It's the most honest version of Maren I've ever seen, and something in me wants to hoard this image, lock it away where no one else can see it.
She rubs at her eyes with the heel of her palm, looking around the kitchen with sleepy confusion before her gaze settles on me. One eyebrow arches perfectly, her lips twisting into that sardonic half-smile that both infuriates and fascinates me.
“Oh,” she says, voice flat. “You're still here. Figured you would have left by now.”
The words should sting, but I'm starting to understand her language. The translation isn't 'why are you here?' but 'why didn't you leave like everyone else does?'
I gesture to the spread of food with a sweeping arm. “Okay, Maren, put the snark away and let me feed you.”
“Feed me? I’m not a stray cat. I didn't ask you to get food,” she says, but she's already moving toward the kitchen, drawn by the smell or hunger or maybe just curiosity.
“Yeah, well, your fridge is a fucking wasteland as usual.”
She slides onto one of the barstools at her counter, crossing her legs at the ankle. The motion draws my eyes to her bare thighs, the smooth curve of her calves. Christ, I'm in deep.
