Wait, is he single? These things—the lotion, the brush—belong to someone. Is he seeing someone and fucking me?
My stomach recoils.
A wave of panic rolls over me.
When I leave the bathroom, my shoulders are tight and my pulse is racing with the hope that he’s still asleep.
I need to get out of here. I need to let go of these warm, fuzzy feelings and return to some kind of normal before our brunch.
I gather my clothes, head to his living room, then get dressed in record time. With my shoes in hand, I tiptoe to the door, unlatching it.
“Hey, you.”
I wince.
“Hi.” It sounds icy. I try again, injecting some warmth in my tone. “Hi there.”
I turn around to find the gorgeous man clad only in black boxer briefs. He’s scratching his jaw. “Hmm. Looks like you were making a dine and dash.”
Against my better judgment, a laugh bursts from me. I collect myself, trying to go for a cool and casual vibe. “I just need to go. Stuff to do before . . .”
Yeah, this isn’t working as well as I thought, and he knows it.
He arches a skeptical brow. “Before brunch with our friends?”
I slap on a smile, my brain whirring through plausible activities that would send me skedaddling. “Yes. I have this shelf I wanted to organize. Plants to water. And I have to pick up . . . popcorn.” What a horrible, terrible liar I am.
“Wouldn’t want to get in the way of you buying popcorn,” he says dryly.
“It’s to take to work tomorrow,” I improvise. “Snacks for the meeting.”
“Super important, snack time is.”
“But hey,” I say, fixing on a smile, oh-so-happy. “Thanks for last night.” I plaster on my farewell grin when it threatens to slip. “It was super awesome. And now I should go. I’ll see you at brunch, and it’ll be fab.”
“Teagan,” he says warily.
“Yes?” It comes out chipper. Too chipper.
His eyes narrow, not with distrust, but with concern. “Are you okay? Because you don’t seem okay.”
I square my shoulders. I need to get out of here—my chest is tight with holding back my questions. I desperately want to quiz Ransom on his bathroom, but that is so not chill. That’s not what a friend would do. It’s what a girlfriend would do, and I’m not and won’t ever be his girlfriend. “I’m so good. I’m all good.”
“And yet you just thanks-for-last-night-ed me.”
“Right,” I say, keeping my cool as best I can. “Because we agreed to one night. It all goes back to normal today. So, this is me being totally normal.”
I don’t sound normal at all.
He walks over to me, slides a hand around my waist, and drops his lips to mine. He kisses me, soft and sweet and minty fresh. He must have slipped out of bed and brushed his teeth while I was gathering my clothes.
Something about him wanting fresh breath both bothers me and turns me on. Like I’m just part of his routine with women.
And like he also wanted to kiss me again.
The first is irrational, I know, since I did the exact same thing. But that was before the vanilla honey and the hairbrush, and now it makes me furious to think he has a routine with women—brush teeth, check; kiss good morning, check—and I’m just part of his habit.
But I like that he wanted to kiss me again. It turns me on for all the reasons racing through my head: He tastes so good. He feels amazing. His kisses make my bones sing and my blood hum. They make my heart pound fast.
I like kissing Ransom too much.
I like him too much.
And I don’t know how to snap back to friendship. All I know is I have to try because friends don’t leave on a sour note.
I slide a hand up his bare chest, and ohhh . . .
That doesn’t help.
His muscles are so defined, so firm, so delicious. He’s like a sculpture come to life. Touching him sends me to a hazy, buzzy feel-good world. But it’s not a world I can live in.
I stop the path of my hand, taking a breath, and I woman up. “Why do you have spring lavender deodorant in your bathroom?”
He screws up the corner of his lips. “Huh?”
“And vanilla-honey lotion. And a hairbrush. Are you seeing someone?”
A chuckle bursts from him. Loud and boisterous. And far too amused. He wraps an arm around me and yanks me close, tucking a finger under my chin. “Yes. Every Saturday, my sister comes over. She showers between shows.”
I shake my head. That doesn’t compute. “What do you mean?”
“She signs. For Hamilton. It’s kind of hot in the theater, and when you’re interpreting, you use your whole body. It’s a workout. She likes to freshen up for the evening performance. This is close to the theater district, and she’s in Brooklyn. Hence, her stuff is here.” He can’t stop grinning, and I can’t stop a grimace, or from feeling foolish.
