Page 42 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
“I’m happy to. Now, go! Be celebrated!”
He grins, letting out an excitedeep!before taking off for his room. When he answers the call, the cheering is so loud and varied, it sounds like a soccer game is on the other side of line. His door closes, but I can still make out the muffled sound of his voice.
I smile again, but it drops as I recall Diego’s reaction when Ian was mentioned. Grant said that his brother’s been private since hisinjury, but after looking him up the other night, he’s obviously taking on other opportunities. So, why not make an appearance if it could give Diego a boost?
“Ian wasn’t interested.” That’s what Diego said when he first told me about Built Box. I’m not mad, just disappointed. I’d thought—hoped?—that Ian would show more care.
Pairing Ian with the wordcarelaunches me straight back to yesterday—not that I’ve strayed too far from the memory since.
Alistair never mentioned the intimate scene he’d interrupted; whether that was a courtesy, cluelessness, or adherence to the Dawghouse’s no-pry policy, I don’t know. But the remainder of the ride was endured in painful silence, broken by the last fewdings of the elevator and Alistair’s muttered plans to Mushu about the plant’s upcoming placement in his room. When the doors opened for the final time, we were bombarded, Grant and Diego crowing about their victory and the money they were owed, and Heather and Mark peppering me with questions that all amounted toDid Cole die when he saw Ian? Please say yes!
After my chair and I had been delivered to my car, Ian had taken Grant and Alistair to the Dawghouse with the last truckload. This left me barefoot in the parking garage with my friends, who were more interested in relaying the “moment of cinema” that was Ian’s reaction to hearing that Cole had arrived (the wordless shirt removal had been vivid, but the way he’d “flown” up the stairs had been a particular standout to Mark, after his own scramble) than helping me load my damn chair, and Diego, whose presence prevented me from revealing what had happened in the elevator. In the time it took to find my shoes, rearrange thecontents of the Prius to accommodate my chair, and get home, Ian was gone. But not before he’d assembled my bed—complete, of course, with “his” mattress.
Such care. Such sexy, sexy care.
A shiver creeps up my spine, and I roll out my shoulders to suppress it. No doubt, it’s a turn-on because I’ve been denied basic consideration for so long. I almost cried when the guys offered me cheese the night I showed up, and a week later, I’m hot and bothered because a man did me the kindness of spending five minutes with a drill. After devoting most of his afternoon to helping me move. And parading his shirtless perfection in front of my ex. And waiting for my okay to proceed with said parading, which required a scorching, prolonged exchange of glances…
The storm clouds, heavy with concern. That extra beat he waited to make sure I was okay before the cheeky half smile. The tonedvthat vanished into the waistband of his shorts, which I’d registered before the glances but is just areallycompelling memory, so I’m adding it to the exchange. Along with his pectorals. And the swell of his biceps. And thefuzz.
And the kiss.
I’ve been trying to convince myself that it was just a friendly physical expression of appreciation, but not even a seasoned self-deluder like myself is going to pull that off. We were going back for more when Alistair showed up, and we both know it; I felt his tongue.
Heat blossoms across my chest, a competing flare of warmth teasing below my waistband, piggybacked by no small amount of anxiety at the knowledge that I’m going to be seeing him againtomorrow. What is that going to look like? Another laugh-it-off exchange is too much to hope for, and while there’s a good chance we’ll just pretend it never happened, part of me doesn’t want to. And by that I mean my mouth parts. And my pants parts.
I grit my teeth, shifting my hips. I need to find some real flaws in that man,stat; camera shyness and an aversion to touch-up paint are not going to do it. Which is alarming in its own right! In any other man, the latter would be an immediate turn-off. He’s literally overtaken my sense of order. Inconceivable.
I’m still frowning when I look up and see Alistair topping off his bowl with another helping of meatballs. When he sees me watching, he looks back at the heaping pile, then to me, and rolls his eyes. “Whatever. These bowls are rad, and I feel fancy as hell when I eat out of them.” When I don’t say anything (What is there to say? The fancy factor is why I started collecting them in the first place), he lets out a whine, shoulders sagging. “Dude.I’ll wash it when I’m done!”
“Alistair,” I assure him, crossing the room for a bowl for myself, “I didn’t doubt you for a second.”
16
“ELLIE?”
I let out a yip, tumbling back from my crouched position beside the laundry basket. I’m flat on my butt, heart racing from the start as I look up at Helen and, at eye level, her daughter, Penny.
Penny steps closer, reaching out a kiddie travel cup of Goldfish crackers.
“Thank you,” I say, and she shakes a few onto my palm.
“What are you doing?” Helen asks.
I munch the Goldfish and consider my response. “I officially moved out of my old place this weekend. I ended up with an extra laundry basket and thought we could use it for the lost and found stuff,” I say, not mentioning that I’d been expressly forbidden from upgrading from the decrepit box. I’d been transferring items from the semisolid cardboard and into the basket when Helen found me. Ian hasn’t been downstairs since I started my shift, and I’m hoping to get everything moved over and the box disposed of before he shows.
The laundry basket plot came to me as I lay in bed last night, stewing over today’s inevitable awkwardness. If Ian respondspoorly to my defiance, then I can be indignant at his rejection of my good deed and use it to combat any weirdness. The same goes for if he fails to notice it or is generally indifferent. And if he actively ignores the new addition, then I can ignore the butterflies I’ve been grappling with, thinking about the graze of his tongue and that gentle touch he placed at the side of my jaw.
There is a chance that this is self-sabotage on my part. And while I’ve never employed mild insubordination to combat an inconvenient sexual attraction, I’ve had enough “helper” moments backfire to know that this could generate a response that would take the shine off Ian, gentle touches and all. Like when I was teaching and recommended that the vice principal try a lavender rinse to neutralize the brassy tone of his beard. We’d been friendly up to that point, but my next performance review had been scathing. He was not invited to my happy hour sendoff.
Self-sabotage cuts both ways, however, and my imagination was more than happy to provide. The last and least likely outcome is that Ian is so taken with the improvement that he gives me carte blanche to attend to everything on my list of suggestions, culminating in the moment I reveal to him the stunningly appointed pro shop, at which point he sweeps me into his arms and we bang it out on one of the weight-lifting benches.
Entertaining this outcome became its own source of sleeplessness. Fortunately, having been reunited with the contents of the top drawer of my bedside table, I was able toreleasemyself from the scenario and fall into contented sleep.
Helen nods. “Good call. I hate fishing through that thing. I always think I’m going to encounter something…” She wrinkles her nose, shaking her head.“Yielding.”
I laugh and get back to moving items over. It pains me, but I’m no longer folding them, for expedience. “And what are you up to today? You coming to eight thirty?”
“Nope. It’s Monday, so no childcare. We’re on a walk. Penny wanted to come by to see herbeloved.”
