Page 25 of Hold the Pickle
He darts back into the bathroom. “I didn’t know you were here!” he calls out. “Shit! I’m sorry!”
I’m not. I feel thunderstruck, pinned to the carpet until the view returns.
But when it does, he’s wrapped himself in a towel. I’m missing the midsection, but I get the full effect of his chest and arms and legs.
“I didn’t grab my clothes. Your cat … I didn’t want to disturb her. I didn’t know. I—” He stammers on, but I manage to tear my gaze from his body and set my bag on the sofa.
“I wasn’t sure you’d be up yet,” I say, tucking a hunk of hair behind my ear.
“I am. I crashed. I should have planned better.”
“It’s fine.”
He rushes over to the bed and kneels down to drag out an army duffle. He’s so busy tunneling through his clothes that he doesn’t notice when the towel gets loose and falls off.
I sit on the sofa, trying to stifle my giggle. There’s that glorious butt again, perched on strong calves as he squats and searches for an outfit.
He stands abruptly, then realizes he’s lost the towel again.
“For Christ’s sake,” he says, bending down to snatch it, giving me an incredible view of the back of his thighs.
When does he get a chance to work out? Maybe he had more free time before his internship.
Then he’s covered again.
I bite my lip to force my smile down before he turns around.
He heads back to the bathroom. “I’ll be back. Decent this time.” The door slams shut.
I take the moment to pull a pair of sleep shorts and an oversized T-shirt from a drawer. I’m not sure what he’s going to be up to next, but I’m dead on my feet. Thankfully, I don’t work tomorrow. My weekend shift is Sunday.
His Transformer bedspread is rumpled. I realize we’re sharing a pillow. I sit on the bed and lean down to sniff it.
It smells mostly of me, my hair products and a whiff of floral shampoo. But mixed in there is something that is definitely Dalton.
He steps out and I quickly sit up.
“I didn’t expect you back at this hour,” he says, trying to casually lean on his elbow on the surface of the bar, missing, then shifting in place to try again.
He’s rattled.
“I went to an all-night diner,” I tell him. That part’s true. I stayed there for seven straight hours, finished my book, and ate three pieces of pie with six cups of coffee.
“Oh. I thought…” He trails off.
“You thought what?”
“Nothing. I have dumb thoughts.”
I pick up my sleeping clothes. I’m halfway to the bathroom when it hits me. “You thought I hooked up with some guy and was at his place?”
He won’t meet my gaze.
I guess I shouldn’t argue the point. Let him think what he wants. It’s not like Iwouldn’thave a one-nighter. It’s just that typically, I don’t. I’m cautious. And LA is known for its sharks.
“I guess I didn’t realize you had a lot of friends here,” he said. “Since you said you were new to town, like me.”
Oh, this lie is going to bite me on the butt. I almost say they are work friends from the deli, but given the cast of characters involved, only one of whom fits the might-go-to-the-club demographic, I’m too likely to get caught later.
