I hobble to the door and crack it open, leaving the latch on. I blare my phone light at him, making him squint.
Wearing nothing but a pair of Union Jack boxers is Spider. His muscled abs are on display, and it’s clear he’s bulked up since I last saw him. His chest is broad and sculpted, his biceps look like I could bounce a quarter off them, and the deep V at his waist is making me salivate. All hail, England.
I move the light down to check out his legs. Yep, they’re sexy too. Dammit.
I tear my eyes off his body and focus on his face.
At least his hair is sticking straight up. Serves him right.
He holds his hand up to block the light in his eyes. “Can you please turn that thing off? You’re blinding me.”
He looks past me and into the foyer area. “I heard you scream and got worried. I remembered that storms scare you.”
“How did you know that?” I ask, not recalling ever telling him.
“When we met on the plane, you told me.”
“Oh.” I bit my lip, surprised he remembered. I recall another tidbit from the plane. “Are you still scared of Dolly Parton hiding in your shower?”
A grin curls his lips. “Fucking terrified.”
Lightning strikes again, and I flinch.
“Are you okay? Do you need anything?”
I stand there and mean to tell him I’m fine, but something in me softens.
“Oscar stole my flashlight and I don’t have any matches,” I say with a smirk.
He grins and holds up a small flashlight. “Want some company?”
A small battle rages inside me. I’m uncomfortable with the tension between us, but I also hate being alone during storms.
I exhale, remove the latch, and take a step aside so he can enter.
My insides quake at our close proximity, especially since I can see all his rippling muscles and tousled hair.
I eye his boxers. “Aren’t you cold?”
His lips quirk. “Want me to put some pants on?”
Thunder rolls again and a bolt of lightning strikes, a bright flash coming in from the windows at the back of the apartment. It illuminates the foyer and den area for a few seconds. My hands clench. “No,” I say hurriedly. “Don’t leave me. Not until the storm is over. This lightning . . . it drives me nuts.”
His brow furrows, his gaze taking in how I’m leaning against the entry table. “Hey, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” He shines his light around the apartment, checking out the big windows at the back.
“Do you have windows in your bedroom?”
I nod. “Floor-to-ceiling on one side. I’ve thought about asking Robert for some kind of window treatment, but he’s done so much . . .” My voice trails off. “The only rooms that don’t have windows are the bathrooms and the kitchen area.”
He thinks for a moment and says. “Come on, I have an idea.”
I follow him as he marches into the den and considers my furniture. Seeming to come to a decision, he begins to move them around. My brow wrinkles as I watch him push a chair over to the sectional. He grabs a floor lamp and moves it close to the chair. What is he doing?
He leans over to get a better look at an end table and I sigh. His tight ass . . . I close my eyes, my body warming. I’m getting hot, and it isn’t from the humidity of the storm.
“Where’s Oscar?” he asks as he shifts the coffee table.
I bite my lip. “He’s staying at Axe’s tonight.”
“Ah.”
I can’t wait any longer, baffled by his actions. “What are you doing? Some kind of feng shui?”
He tosses me a grin, and for the first time since seeing him, it feels like it used to with us . . . like home.
“You’ll see, love.”
I follow him as he makes his way unerringly into my bedroom, removes the pillows and sheets, and then carries them back into the den, still using the flashlight to light the way.
“I need some more quilts. Do you have any?”
I nod and show him the linen closet. He grabs an armful and goes back into the den.
He arranges the quilts and pillows on the carpet then drapes several sheets over the furniture he’s moved in closer to the center of the room. The floor lamp is the highest point and creates a tent effect. He pats the floor, indicating a small opening he’s made for me to crawl through.
“You made a fort,” I say. “For me to hide in?”
He nods, doing one of those effortless shrugs. “Just want you to feel safe. At least the lightning won’t be as noticeable. I mean, I know you can still see through the sheets—”
“It’s perfect,” I say, chewing on my lip. “Are you coming in?”
“If you want me to?” There’s a hesitant sound in his voice.
“I do.”
I lean over and crawl through and glance over my shoulder to see him watching me, probably taking in the yellow lace underwear I’m wearing under my roomy t-shirt.
Once I get settled, he tosses me the flashlight. “Now close your eyes and count to a hundred—out loud, so I can hear you. I’ll be right back.”
My eyes flare as he stands up. “You’re leaving?”
“Just for a second. Hang on—” and then he’s gone. I hear him opening my front door and then silence.
I sigh, close my eyes, and begin to count.
He arrives back at around the seventy mark. I hear him scuffling around my den, a loud grunt when he bumps into something, and then the flick of a lighter.
The opening of the fort door rustles as he comes inside, but I keep my eyes closed. His shoulder brushes against mine, and his voice is hushed. “Okay, you can open your eyes now.”
I open them and my focus is transfixed on the myriad of candles he set up around the room and lit. Several are on the mantel, and a few are on the foyer table next to the front door.
My chest expands, and I find that I can’t look at him. “It’s . . . a wonderland.”
He squeezes my shoulder, both of us sitting cross-legged on the quilts. “The next time you have a storm, do this instead. Maybe it will change your whole perspective.”
“Yes.” I don’t know what else to say.
I’m overwhelmed by him. By his thoughtfulness.
He turns my chin toward him, and . . . we’re so close. I see that he’s put on pajama pants after all; they’re a blue and green plaid and hang loosely from his hips.
“Are you still scared?”
“No,” I whisper. I’m something else entirely.
He pulls something out from behind him, a small package wrapped in thick, expensive paper and tied with a burlap bow.
“What’s this?” My voice is soft and a bit breathless.
“A gift. I . . . I’ve had it for a while.”
“Why didn’t you send it to me?”
A long sigh comes from him and he swallows. “Rose . . . I couldn’t see you or have any contact with you . . . not until I was clean. That’s why I didn’t come to the back door the night of the concert.”
I process his words, feeling them out. “You’ve been clean for a while, right? If it was so important to you . . . why haven’t you seen me?”
He rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t know . . . being clean has been hard and I’m figuring it out as I go. I see a therapist and I draw to keep the demons away. Father and I . . . we talk more and try to see each other often. Just having his support . . . it means a lot to me.”