Chapter Ten
Delia
I can’t sleep.
It’s not the scotch—I’m nice and floaty and buzzed, but far from anything like drunk. I’m sleepy, but can’t fall over the edge into unconsciousness. I get close, and then…
I see Thai fucking Bristow.
I see his stupid, perfect hair. Blond and thick and messy and too long and perfect.
I see his stupid, perfect eyes. Green with hints and streaks of gray. Expressive and deep and full of humor and intelligence. Eyes thatseeme. See through me. Eyes that make me feel…exposed. Naked.
He hasn’t said or done anything I can pinpoint as being lecherous or inappropriate. Hasn’t given me the leering once-over. I haven’t caught him staring at my cleavage or my ass. Nothing I can call him out for. But yet, somehow…around him, I may as well be dressed in nothing but a lace teddy.
I wonder what he would think if he knew I own a red lace teddy—an expensive, sinfully revealing one.
Sure, I’ve never worn it around a male before, but I do own one and have worn it. Alone, in my own house. Under a bathrobe.
I didn’t look at myself in the mirror while wearing it.
But it counts, right?
He’s made comments that make me feel like he sees me as a woman. As a physical creature, as an object of male desire. A sexual being.
No nun I’ve ever met wears skirts likethat.
Begs the question, how many nuns has he met?
More to the point is the phrase, skirts like that. The emphasis, skirts likethat.
Hopefully, the dim light of the fire hid my blush when he said that.
The moment I got home, I stood in front of my full-length mirror and looked at myself. At the skirt.
What did he see? My giant ass?
“Hey, Donuts Delia—did your dad bring you to school with a crane?”
“Yo, Delia. Watch out for that chair. It was a bit wobbly the last time I sat in it. I wouldn’t want it to break when you sit down.”
“Hey, Delia. I got you something.” A Weight Watchers meal.
I hear his voice in my head, even still, every single day when I look in the mirror. The things he said.
I groan and toss and turn in bed, trying to quiet my spinning brain.
Stop thinking about Thai Bristow.
Stop thinking about how thick his arms looked. How tight and round his ass was in his slacks as he walked away from me last night. He’d been still dressed for work—khaki slacks, Timberland boots, collared, short-sleeve polo shirt, brown leather belt. Not quite dressy, not quite casual.
Stop thinking about him, dammit.
Although, thinking about how hot he’s gotten is better than thinking about how mean he used to be.
I wonder if he has a six-pack. He and Dell both pranced around shirtless from April to November, and they both always had hard, visible abs despite rarely doing anything remotely resembling exercise beyond running away from me after pulling some lame, cruel prank on me.
He probably still has a six-pack—arms like that and shoulders like that don’t come from nowhere.
