Page 19 of Professional Consult
A few of the cuts on my feet sting, but none were that deep and I manage to walk fine. I’m most thankful my eye wasn’t damaged.
As I shower, I inspect Mr. Grumpy’s soaps and shampoos, which are refreshingly few. I have about ten different bottles scattered on my ledges, but Luke has only two. A bar of soap and a bottle of Suave.
And because I’m pretty sure I’ve lost my mind, as I press the soap to my flesh, I think about how it’s been pressed to his, gliding across those thick, bulky muscles, moving down his body, over his tight abs to the very manly place that I’m so curious about.
Perhaps rubbing Luke’s bar of soap against my pussy makes me a poor houseguest, but I have every intention of buying a replacement bar for him, so I don’t let guilt needle me too badly.
Does he lather his hands before washing his junk? Or does he run the bar down its length, over his balls, to that tight ass of his?
Wow…I’m pretty sure this could be the start of a stalker thriller movie. But something about Luke being so normal is fascinating. I’ve never had normal.
My relationships are timed with award shows, cycling in a never-ending pattern of courtships, dating, and breakups that see me attached to the perfect beau for maximum impact.
While many of my relationships are planned, some are not, but they always follow the same cycle, as predictable as the moon. Furthermore, the men in Hollywood are all the same, mirror images of each other, so it’s easy to grow bored with them. Just one month spent with a Hollywood hunk feels like a year. An agonizingly long year.
I can’t even remember the last time I was genuinely taken by a man, but I can pinpoint the exact moment my blood turned to molten lava. And that was courtesy of Mr. Luke Bastwick, last night when he so passionately spoke of playgrounds.
It’s a kink I never knew I had.
But I sure would like to explore, which is, in a word, ironic considering he’s one of the few men that has ever in my life responded to me with such contempt. Men typically bend over backwards to get my attention and keep me around, whereas Luke would rather I just get on a plane.
It’s just another way for life to stick it to me. Make me spectacular at a job I don’t want and lust over the only man I can’t have.
To complete my trifecta of misery, perhaps I’ll grow allergic to all the foods I enjoy.
Speaking of food, maybe I can thank Pond Spring's dutiful police chief by cooking breakfast.
Unfortunately, I don’t have any clothes other than what I wore to Ponds Spring and the oversized tee-shirt Luke gave me. Not that I’m too upset by that. With it coming almost to my knees, I don’t have to worry about pants while walking around his house.
After drying off, I throw Luke’s shirt back on along with my panties and make my way into the kitchen.
It’s weird walking around someone’s home, especially one like this, small and cozy, without the modern furnishings I’m so used to. It’s almost like walking onto a movie set.
While I like it, it’s quaint, masculine, and bare. Desperately in need of a woman’s touch. I wonder if he’s ever been married. A man built like him would certainly draw the interest of any hot-blooded woman with a pulse, but with an attitude like his, it’s doubtful he could keep one around.
Luke is sprawled out like a bear on the couch, which barely contains him, snoring loud enough to wake the dead.
A quick search of his refrigerator turns up bacon, eggs, and strawberry jam. While the kitchen itself is clean, there’s a sink full of dishes that need tending to, so while the bacon sizzles, I fill the sink with water and suds.
I can’t remember the last time I had to wash my own dishes. It’s not that I’m lazy. I often work sixteen-hour days, sometimes without a day off for over a month when there’s a tight shooting schedule.
As I make my way from plate to plate, I feel a calmness I’m not used to. I’m not saying I enjoy doing dishes, but there is something relaxing about it. I don’t feel as rushed as I do in my normal life where I have people to do these things for me. Dare I say I’m almost at peace.
A crackling sound reminds me to flip the bacon, which has shrunk enough to scoot a couple more slices into the pan. First one, then two—
“What the hell are you doing?”
Startled, I drop the second piece, yelping in shock as grease splashes and hits my wrist. Luke cuts in, pushing me away as he turns off the stove.
He looks at me, his eyes frantic with worry as he searches my arm.
“You just think you can go into a man’s house and start tinkering with shit?”
“I was just making breakfast.”
“Let me see.”
“I’m fine.”
