“Yes. Now are you gonna invite me in?”
I moved aside and watched him walk into my house for the first time. The first of many times, I hoped. He placed the bags on the coffee table and looked around. I gave him a few moments to observe the scene, watching for his reaction to my home, my things—me.
“So I guess I’m alone in wearing PJs for breakfast?” he asked.
“You really want me to change into my PJs?”
“Too much too soon?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Lemme guess. No appropriate PJs you could wear around me?”
I burst out laughing. “Yeah, that’s it.”
He waited. He could tell I wasn’t finished.
“I suppose guys think we really go to bed in chemises or teddies every night?” I asked.
“Guys hope that’s the case.”
“Ha ha.”
“Well, I won’t pressure you, but you’re making me look like an idiot over here.”
I didn’t believe him for a second.
“I sleep in shorts and a tank top, and you can’t see me in those quite yet,” I said.
“Why not?” he asked. “Sounds like regular summertime clothes to me.”
“Because my friend spray tanned me yesterday, and it’s awful. Just awful,” I confessed.
Reece smiled a little too big. “Now this I gotta see.”
I shook my head. “It’s terrible. I’m all splotchy and orange and ridiculous. It’s like she ordered the cheapest tanning solution on the market. Knowing my luck I’ll have some horrendous allergic reaction later today.”
Reece burst out laughing.
“Oh, glad you find it amusing,” I said.
“Go change into your PJs. I won’t laugh. I may make a comment or two, but I won’t laugh,” he said. “I can’t be the only one who looks like he just rolled out of bed. And mess up your hair a little, too. No one’s hair looks that perfect right when they wake up.”
“Fine. I’ll change. But if you have something more devious planned—”
He threw up his hands. “I swear I don’t.”
I nodded and excused myself to the bedroom. When I emerged a few minutes later in light cotton pants and a tank top, Reece approached me and inspected my arm.
“Wow, she really did a number on you,” he said, running his finger over my forearm. It tickled, and I squirmed.
“She wants to start a business,” I replied.
Reece looked horrified. I laughed hard.
“She better get her practice on if she thinks she’s gonna find and keep clients,” he said.
“For reals,” I replied.
And then he waved his hands all around my living room.
“I like this whole weathered thing you’ve got going on,” he said, and just like that, the botched spray tan was no longer important.
“Shabby chic,” I said. “With a little retro thrown in.”
“I guess that’s the technical term?” he replied, smiling at me.
I nodded. He pointed to the corner of the room.
“That’s a TV armoire. What do you use that for?” He pointed in the other direction to my flat screen. “Your TV’s there.”
“I didn’t have a coat closet,” I replied, “until that.”
“I like your ingenuity,” Reece said, walking over to the armoire.
I like the fact that he used the word “ingenuity.” It stirred up some deeply buried sexual feelings. God, I was aching for sex, but I also wasn’t an idiot. Sex too soon with a guy you like is a huge no-no. It can mess up the entire evolution of the relationship. No. I would not have sex with Reece today no matter that he said “ingenuity” and was standing in my living room in pajamas.
“Did you paint this?” he asked, running his hand up the side of the armoire.
“Yep.”
“How’d you get it to look all old like this?”
“It’s a technique called crackling,” I replied.
He nodded and turned to my couch. “What other talents do you have?”
I shrugged. “Well, I sew. I made all the slipcovers for my couch and chairs.”
He ran his hand over the pale pink and green striped material covering the couch arm.
“I like this fabric,” he said. “It looks like you.”
“That material is called ticking,” I said, giggling.
Reece cocked his head.
“I’m serious. Ticking fabric is used in furniture upholstery,” I explained.
“Then it couldn’t be more fitting for you,” he said.
I’d never shared that with anyone because, let’s face it: Who the hell cares about ticking fabric? But I thought it was clever, considering, and Reece seemed genuinely interested. I’d never had a guy over to my house who actually looked around and asked me questions.
“What is this?” he asked, picking up a large metal jug off the floor.
“It’s a milk jug. Used up until the 1930s. It’s made of galvanized tin. I found it at an antique mall several years ago. It was buried in the corner and looked like it needed a home.”
Reece placed the jug back on the floor.
“Do you go to antique malls a lot?” he asked.
I nodded. “And flea markets. And any little off-beat stores that might have interesting finds.”
“Maybe I could go with you some time,” he suggested.
I lit up like a match when it first strikes the box. The longer I talked to Reece, the more I realized that I dated a bunch of losers in the past. Many of them showed little interest in my hobbies. None of them ever offered to accompany me antiquing. I forced Brian once he became my fiancé, because he was my fiancé. But this guy standing in front of me? This guy with the plaid pajama pants and hidden muscles under his tee that weren’t doing the best job hiding? This guy wanted to go antiquing with me. What guy ever wants to do that? And I don’t care if he was just being nice. The fact that he offered was enough to make my panties wet.
“That would be really fun,” I said.
“Good. We’ll plan for next weekend,” he replied, and grabbed the bags he’d placed on the coffee table. “I like it, Bailey. I like your living room. Now show me your kitchen.”
I led him to the next room where he commented on my red and white checkered floor—“Did you paint that yourself?”—and asked where he could purchase a retro stove.
“Oh, stop already!” I laughed.
“What?” he asked.