“These aren’t . . .”
When I trail off, she pauses with her hand on a jar of face lotion.
“Aren’t what? They should fit you.”
“They aren’t ...” I force myself to say the name. “Mulholland’s?”
Because if they are, I’d sooner wear the lacy red thong I pulled off Torres earlier.
Her gaze flicks away from me. “No. They belonged to someone else.”
I nod. I’m not jealous, per se. And it’s not like I have an aversion to touching something of Mulholland’s. It’s more that I don’t want to wear anything that will remind her of him.
When I unwrap the towel from my waist, I notice she’s stealing glances from the corner of her eye.
I bite back a grin. “You can look.”
She doesn’t even try to deny what she was doing. It was difficult to get a good look in the shower, but the bedroom lamp casts a warm, bright glow, and there’s nowhere to hide.
I leave off my boxers and take my time sliding the shorts up my legs and over my hips. Her lips part as she tracks themovement. I make sure to stretch and flex as I wriggle into the shirt. By the time I’m dressed, her cheeks are pink, and my dick is twitching in the borrowed shorts.
I shoot her a challenging smirk. “Your turn.”
Eyebrows raised, her hands release the cloth tucked between her breasts, and the wet towel falls to the floor. She’s naked and gorgeous, and I nearly swallow my tongue as I look my fill. Her dark locks are pinned up, and the delicate hairs around her face have started to curl from the shower steam. I take in her rosy nipples, the trimmed hair between her legs, her petite frame and dangerous curves. I’m hungry for her all over again.
But then she opens a drawer and covers herself with an oversize gray T-shirt and loose pajama shorts. The shirt features a quote from Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayor that reads, “With fear for our democracy, I dissent.” Somehow, this outfit is even more appealing than the tight red dress. She looks like the Valencia Torres I used to know—mission driven, focused, andreal.
She collects the wet towels and shuffles out of the room in fuzzy purple slippers. “Come on. I’ll make tea.”
The kitchen is larger and newer than I’d expect for an apartment this small. There’s even a dishwasher and washing machine. I tour the living room while the electric kettle heats water. Rows of crammed bookshelves line an entire wall,which is just so Torres. She was always reading when we were in school. But despite that, she never fit the stereotype of the shy, quiet bookworm. She’d been outspoken and friendly, full of ideas and ambition.
Except with me.
I drag a hand down my face as all the things I need to say to her crowd my thoughts. I wish I could call Ralph to help me get it all in order. To make sure I don’t skip something or say it wrong.
Because part of me is already very attached to this conversation going right.
“Tea’s ready.” She hands me a mug, and I bring it to my nose to inhale.
“Chamomile?”
“It’s a bit late for caffeine, but if you want something else, coffee or—”
“No, this is perfect.”
She leads the way to a comfortable-looking yellow sofa. A Persian rug covers the hardwood floor, and between that and the exposed brick walls, the apartment feels cozy instead of cramped.
We sit side by side, blowing on our tea to cool it down. A massive gray cat with flattened ears appears out of nowhere and jumps onto the couch between us. When it settles against myhip, I slide my fingers through its fur and am rewarded with a purr like a rusty motor.
Valencia stifles a laugh with her hand.
I send her a puzzled look. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.” She says it quickly, then seems to change her mind about answering. “It’s just ... Archie isn’t a fan of most people. Are you, boy?”
“Archie?”
“Short for Archimedes.”
