“The gift shop was closed. And the employees were unwilling to part with their own.”
I turn off the street and into my apartment’s garage, driving to my assigned spot. I shift into park, my hand brushing against his knee, and he moves away from the contact. I turn off the engine, and he unlocks his seatbelt, the sound unnaturally loud.
My couch is a sectional, one that doesn’t fold out, and I tuck a sheet under the cushions, moving with quick precision as Trey wanders around the living room, picking up and moving anything that he finds interesting. Craig was the complete opposite the first time he came into my home. He’d hovered by the front door, his eyes darting to me, needing the verbal authorization before he’d felt comfortable enough to fully step inside. Second, he didn’t touch my stuff. He still asks before picking up a frame, or opening a drawer. I like that, that even now, two years into our relationship, he has respect for my space, for my things. When we move in together, he won’t invade, but rather carefully ease in, all the while confirming and diplomatically discussing boundary items like dirty laundry and personal time.
I hear Trey open my bedroom’s closet door and I pause, mid-fluff, of a pillow. “What are you doing?” I call out, setting down the pillow and moving into the room.
“Looking for clothes. Where does your fiancé keep his stuff?”
He crouches, moving aside the bottom of an old prom dress, then stands, turning to me, as if he isn’t being the rudest person on earth. “Huh?”
“Huh, what?” I cross my arms in front of my chest.
“Where does your fiancé keep his clothes?” He raises an eyebrow and damn, he is beautiful. His robe is open at the chest, showcasing muscles that hug either side of his neck. His chest is bare and tan, the muscles strong and well-developed. He swallows, and I yank my eyes back to his face.
“He doesn’t keep clothes here. He packs a bag when he comes.” I suddenly think of something. I snap my fingers in excitement and run for my keys. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to grab something out of the trunk.”
I am at the front door when his hand wraps around my forearm. “Wait.” I pause, my hand on the door, and look up into his face. “Let me get it. It’s too late for you to go out there alone.”
I snort. “I just went out there alone when I went to pick you up. You weren’t too concerned about me then.”
“Selfish necessity. And I didn’t realize the setting. It’s too dark of a garage. Too many places that someone could hide and wait for you. Just tell me what to look for.”
I yield, glumly handing over my car keys. “In the trunk, on the left side, there are two big ziplock bags. Grab the one labeled ‘Craig’.”
He nods. “I’ll be right back.”
When he returns, he hands over the bag, our fingers brushing. I turn away, open the bag above the kitchen counter, and pull out the clothes, an emergency set that Craig had insisted, when we’d first started dating, that we carry in our cars. As he likes to preach, it never hurts to have a spare set of clothes. It’s the same reason why our trunks have bottled water and granola bars, first aid kits and flare guns. Once we marry and move to a house, we will have a generator and a storm cellar, fire evacuation plans and enough canned food to get us through a month-long famine. I hold out the clothes. “Here. I can’t promise they’ll fit.”
Trey takes the clothes—a new pair of Wrangler jeans, boxer briefs, and a T-shirt. “Do you mind if I take a quick shower?”
“Sure.” I point to the bathroom. “There are towels underneath the sink. Feel free to use the shampoo and soap that’s in there.”
He goes. The bathroom door shuts and I try not to think about his robe dropping, and Trey Marks standing, fully naked in the space.