Boone’s chuckle carried out into the room. “God bless America and it’s repeal on Prohibition.”
“Please, my great-great-granddaddy was supposedly quite the puppet master in the bootleg industry in this part of the country. We present-day Abbotts would be well-stocked either way.”
After making my bed, I slid into a comfy pair of sandals and scanned the room, looking for something else to do, or at least distract myself with. Boone had just charged out of the bathroom, steam billowing behind him, with nothing clothing him but a tiny towel cinched tight around his waist. His skin wet, his hair wet, his gaze landed on me, and that smile I’d been sure at one time had been created for me alone slid into place . . . I needed something to distract myself with.
“What have you got in mind for the day?” I turned away from him and headed over to my dresser to reorganize the porcelain figurines I’d been given every year on my birthday—a series of angels holding whatever age I’d turned that year. “Other than making fashion statements at the country club again and marinating yourself in a vat of premium scotch?”
From behind me, I heard what sounded an awful lot like a towel dropping to the floor. My instinct was to spin around to find out if I was right, so I made myself stay frozen, moving nothing but my hands as I moved the porcelain angels around.
“Well, I need to get back to my place sometime today to get a change of clothes. I turned my boxers inside out yesterday, but two days is really the limit for anyone’s underwear, and I’d prefer not to go commando tomorrow too. Just because I like sleeping that way doesn’t mean I like going about my day in the same condition.”
I swapped the eighteen angel with the eight one, curling my nose. “That’s disgusting.”
“Oh, please, let’s not act like I’m the only one recycling their underwear, because unless some sort of immaculate swapping miracle happened while we were both asleep, you’re wearing the exact same panties you pulled on yesterday morning, Clara Abbott.”
I felt my cheeks heat. He was right. In fact, I hadn’t even been able to use the restroom thanks to the restrictive qualities of The Thing. I’d limited my fluid intake after learning I’d be trapped in it until sometime this morning, and the rest of my bodily fluid had been sweated out by the liter yesterday.
“Let’s just mind our own business when it comes to our respective underwear habits,” I said, swapping a few more angels around as I tried to pretend I wasn’t so focused on what he was doing, I could pinpoint every part of his dressing ritual. The rustle of his old jeans as he pulled them on, one leg followed by the next, the sound of his zipper lifting, the flutter of his shirt as he tugged it over his head, followed by the stuffing sound of him tucking it in.
“How many times are you going to move that eighteen angel around?”
I nearly jumped when I heard Boone’s voice right behind me. A glance over my shoulder revealed he was dressed and barely a foot away.
I hadn’t realized I’d been moving her from one spot to the next for a while until Boone brought it up. I withheld a sigh and laid her on the desk close by. “Until she finds her place.”
While I withheld mine, Boone didn’t contain his sigh. “Come on. Let’s get you out of The Thing. Since you’re not thrilled with the idea of me ripping you out of it the old-fashioned way.”
I heard the eyebrow wag in his voice, so keeping my eyes forward, I delivered an elbow jab into his stomach before heading toward the door. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Cavanagh. Why, I just made your acquaintance last night, and I’d never let a man do that sort of thing to me on a first date.” I opened the door and waited for him. We were a team, whatever else we were or whenever we’d “met.” I knew that if I knew nothing else. “I’m not that kind of girl.”
Boone covered his chest with his hand and gave me an appalled look as he crossed the room. “You say that like you’re implying I’m that kind of guy.”
“Not implying anything. Again, I only just met you. I don’t know enough about you to make that sort of assumption.” I waved him through the door before closing it behind us. Not that shutting it would do any good. My mom had never been one to adhere to the closed-door policy of privacy. “All I know is that you know how to tear it up on a dance floor and that you have troubling hygiene standards when it comes to your undergarments.”
Boone’s laugh rolled down the hall, seeming to spill down the stairs into the foyer. Like yesterday morning, the house was quiet, but today I knew the reason for the silence. Breakfast was being served outside, buffet-style, which was only about a million times more preferable than yesterday’s crowded, stuffy counterpart. I might actually be able to take more than two and a half bites of my breakfast this morning.