Dex doesn’t come home. Not when Ivy and Gray head up to bed. Not after I’ve read in bed for a few hours. It’s nearly two in the morning when I give up the ghost and turn off my e-reader.
In the silence of my cozy guest room, tucked under the eaves, I stare at the window, now blocked by heavy pink silk curtains. I decorated this room. My first project. I’d gone for white walls, a gold-leaf Rococo dresser, a white Louis XVI-style bed trimmed in lime green satin, and a set of vibrant Warhol Queen Elizabeth prints hanging on one wall. I call it shabby Brit chic. It’s in honor of my mom, who’s British and uses this room when she visits.
The room across the hall, where Dex is staying, I decorated for Dad, the color scheme dark and masculine. Gray flannel on the walls, ebony wood bed, bold photo prints, and pinstriped gray curtains. It’s empty now. Something I’m painfully aware of.
Is Dex avoiding me? Is he angry? Hurt?
I replay the brush of his fingers against my skin when he’d left me. It had felt like a conversation. A promise, maybe.
But what the hell do I know?
Why does it matter so much? And so fast? Just last night I’d told myself he wasn’t my type. Then I had to go and kiss the hell out of him.
Huffing, I kick the covers free, my skin hot and itchy as though I have ants crawling over it.
Maybe I should listen to Gray and nip this thing—whatever the hell it is—in the bud. Dex is out for the night? Good. I’ll avoid him in the morning. And that will be that. We’ll politely go our own ways, and I’ll leave next week.
An hour later I am still wide fucking awake. Damn it.
* * *
Dex
One thing about living alone, you don’t have to sneak into your house. Being a guest, however, I try my best to get up the stairs without waking anyone—a certain baby, to be specific.
I’m bone-tired and smell like cigar smoke. Some of the guys insisted on lighting up. Swear to God, those dogs playing poker paintings have a lot to answer for. Because I can see no good reason why filling up a room with vile blue smoke is conducive to winning poker.
I certainly didn’t need any aid to win. Defensive linemen are shit at keeping a neutral face. I could read them like a book and am a few grand richer for it. A smile pulls at my mouth at the memory of Jaden cursing as he lost again and again.
My smile fades. I took sick pleasure in beating his ass. I tell myself it didn’t have anything to do with that little scene I witnessed at the restaurant, that it was all about being a good center and not letting a lineman get one over on me. But I’m only lying to myself.
Suppressing a sigh, I creep into my room. And halt.
The small, bronze bedside lamp is on, casting a soft, warm glow over the room. Not much light, but enough to see perfectly clear.
Curled up under the covers, an e-reader still in hand, is Fi. She’s fast asleep, her golden hair spread out over my pillow.
For a second I look back at the door. Did I go into Fi’s room by accident? No. I’ve seen her room. It’s light and colorful and feminine.
Besides, my boots are in one corner, a pair of my jeans hanging off the back of the leather armchair next to the window.
My gaze wanders back to Fi, who looks tiny in the big bed. And I’m having a Goldilocks moment here, because I definitely feel like the bear who’s found his bed invaded.
Hell.
I tried to avoid thinking of her all night. She kissed Jaden. I don’t know why. It hadn’t looked involved. They’d been laughing, clearly goofing around. Still didn’t stop me from feeling as though a pole had been punched through my chest.
But her big, green eyes had held guilt and regret when she looked at me. So what could I say?
I don’t own Fi. I want her. I fear wanting her. But I don’t have a claim.
A soft snore leaves Fi’s lips, and she snuggles down farther in the bed.
Fi. In my bed.
Maybe I do have a claim.