That can’t be right. I roll over and fumble on my nightstand for my phone. Once I grab it, the screen goes dark. Shaking off some sleepiness, I sit up and try to get my bearings. Maybe this is an extension of my dream about Colt last night. Images of us tangled up in my sheets flood my mind. If it is, this is far less sexy. I pull up the list of missed calls. Nope, not a dream. Colt’s name is at the top. I click on his name and listen to the ringing.
“I’m sorry.” The words come out quickly, but he sounds quiet and far away. He sniffs like he’s been crying.
I sit up straighter, wide awake. “Colt, talk to me. What’s wrong?”
“It’s...” A long pause follows. I bite back my words and wait for him to finish. “I’m kinda locked out of my place.”
“Have you called the landlord or a locksmith?” What a stupid question. Of course he already tried that. I roll off the bed and start looking for clothes to pull on.
“My landlord isn’t answering. It wasn’t like I planned this fiasco, so I didn’t bring my wallet or anything. I can’t go to a hotel or even start my car.” He pauses his rambling for a second and huffs. “And now it’s pouring rain, and I didn’t know who else to call.”
“Text me your address, and I’ll be there in a few minutes.” I toss sweatpants, socks, and a shirt from one of my drawers on the bed. I switch the call to speakerphone so I can talk and dress simultaneously.
“I’m sorry. You don’t have to come. I’ll figure something out. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Stop. I’m glad you called. I’m on my way.”
It takes me a few seconds to throw on the clothes and grab a hoodie and shoes by the front door. I grab my car keys and check for a text from Colt. He’s sent his address along with the wordsorry. I reply with aten-minute ETA. It makes me a terrible person, but the butterflies in my stomach celebrate getting to see Colt again so soon.
My admonishment on the drive over doesn’t calm them down, but seeing a wholly soaked and broken Colt sitting on the front porch does. Even from my car, I can see his shivers. I jump out of the vehicle as soon as I put it inPark. He’s bent over, his arms wrapped around his knees. This is not the same confident man I met at the bar last night.
“Colt.” He snaps his head up to look at me. “Come on. Let’s go.” Colt pushes himself up from the stairs and winces as hestraightens his legs. I grab his arm and drag him toward the car. He follows me wordlessly as I lead him to the passenger door. When I open the door, he eyes the interior. “Hurry up so we can get out of the rain.”
“I’ll get your seats all wet.”
“I don’t care.” He stares at me for a moment. “Seriously. The car has seen a lot worse. Get in.” As I start to consider pushing him, he climbs into the seat.
I close the door behind him and run around to the other side, thankful to be getting out of this downpour. I hop in and take a second to wipe the rain off my face. Or I try; at this point, it’s hopeless. Colt sits unmoving, eyes forward. There isn’t much I can offer him here, so I crank the heat as high as it will go and turn on his seat warmer. The sooner we’re home, the better. Then, I can properly care for him. I strip my sweatshirt off and hand it to him. “Here. It’s a bit wet, but the inside is still dry. It’ll warm you up a bit.”
His hand hovers near the shirt, but he doesn’t reach for it. “Please.” I’m not above begging. “Take your t-shirt off first so you don’t lose any more body heat.” Grudgingly, he takes the sweatshirt. He considers the issue, gives in, and yanks his drenched shirt over his head. I try not to look at his bare torso. He’s had a terrible day and doesn’t need me ogling him. It’s a tight space, though, so if I sneak glimpses of his creamy skin, no one can blame me. When he’s got the sweatshirt on and buckles his seatbelt, I put the car in drive and point us toward my house. “We’ll be at my place in a few minutes. Try to relax a little bit.”
The drive is silent save for the sound of the heater working overtime. Pulling into the garage, I turn the car off and look over. I swear Colt didn’t move an inch during the drive. I’m not sure what to say now. “How are you doing?” It’s a stupid question. After running through a list of better options, I settle on, “Are you hungry?”
“Not really.”
“Okay, let’s go inside. I’ll show you where to take a hot shower and find some dry clothes.”
“Thank you. I didn’t mean to put you out tonight.”
“It’s nothing.” I open my door, and Colt follows me into the house. “Make yourself at home. This is the kitchen. If you can find it, you can eat it.” I wave my hand around, pointing at the fridge and pantry. “I usually go to the store on Sunday, so I’m a little low on things, but there are plenty of snacks.”
He follows me as I point out different cabinets where he can find things. He looks cute in my oversized sweatshirt, even if it is still damp. And, holy hell. Those pajama pants are a thing of beauty. Others might want gray sweatpants, but they have nothing on these blue cotton pants. The thin fabric is wet and clings to every inch of his body. He clearly isn’t wearing anything under them, and they leave nothing to the imagination—absolutely nothing.
I pry my gaze away from his dick and stuff my hands into the pockets of my sweatpants to hide my growing erection. “I’ll show you to the shower.” He follows me up the stairs and down the hall. I show him through my bedroom and into the en-suite bath.
“Here you go. Feel free to use any of the toiletries.” I pull a fluffy blue towel from the linen closet and set it on the counter. “If you need anything, just holler. I’ll grab some pajamas for you to wear tonight. We can toss your wet clothes in the laundry so they’re clean and dry for you in the morning.
“Thank you, I?—”
“No more thanking or apologizing. Shower before you end up with pneumonia.” I step out and pull the door shut behind me. I wait until the water starts running before finding him something to wear. Maybe I can use this time to pull myself together. The last thing he needs right now is his friend ogling him.
I rummage through my dresser, trying to find something for him to wear. He’s shorter than I am, so things should fit, but they might be a bit long. I pull out a pair of extra soft, warm sweatpants and a long-sleeve t-shirt. Is it weird to give him a pair of boxers? He certainly didn’t come in any; even if I didn’t know that, anything he had on would be soaked. No one wants to put on wet underwear. I come down on the side of slightly weird but still appropriate and grab a pair of boxers and fuzzy socks from the top drawer. Who doesn’t want warm, fuzzy socks after being cold?
Piling all the clothes together, I head toward the bathroom. The water is still running. Do I leave the clothes inside? Wait for him to finish? I know I’m overthinking things at this point. I can’t recall the protocol for this kind of thing. To be fair, this has never happened to me before. I try to think what I would do if it were Tyler. I’d barge in and leave the clothes on the counter. Tyler wouldn’t bat an eye on the intrusion.
I knock lightly on the door—because I still have manners—then push the door open. A wall of steam hits me, clouding my vision. As my eyes adjust, I take a few slow steps and set the clothes next to the towel on the vanity. I try hard not to glance toward the shower. I can’t quite force myself not to look, though. I can make out Colt’s shape through the fogged glass, his back muscles flexing as he works the soap into a lather. My mouth goes dry, and my dick twitches. God, I’m such a creeper. I avert my gaze and duck out the door, calling out at the last second to let him know the clothes are on the counter.
COLT
