He doesn’t look at my hair. Nope. He starts at my bare feet and works his way up my body—naked legs, fringed-edged denim booty shorts, and a black tank top. Then he fixes his gaze on my hair. Figures.
“Nope. Sorry. I’m still a redhead. Not your dead wife.” I bite my lips together. Did I just say dead wife? Surely not. I continue, “Is that all you wanted?”
He narrows his eyes and cocks his head.
Enough with my hair already!
“What is that?” He reaches for the top of my head but stumbles over the threshold.
I grab his torso to steady him, but it makes me wobble a bit. Is he drunk? How irresponsible of him.
“What is what?”
Nate makes a second attempt to reach for the top of my head.
“Ouch!” My hand tries to stop him, but it’s too late.
He chuckles, dangling my bra between us with several of my hairs stuck to the hook. “Your bra was hanging from your hair.” He laughs a little more.
Yeah, he’s intoxicated.
I snatch it from his hand and hide it behind my back … like he didn’t just see it. I wrangled the murderous thing off during the first episode of Outlander and tossed it over my shoulder. It must have snagged on my hair.
“Are you drunk?”
He shakes his head. “No. Not drunk. Not sober enough to drive, but not drunk. You?” He grabs my wrist and lifts my hand, the one holding the bottle of wine.
“I’m not drunk. I’m just relaxed.”
“I miss Morgan already.” He frowns. It’s an adorable frown. The really relaxed version of me wants to kiss it right off his face.
“And I can’t check in with her because she doesn’t have a phone because I’m a paranoid asshole dad who dreamed too big for reality.”
“Want me to text Gabe to get an update?” I lift the bottle to my mouth and lean clear back. Shit … it’s empty. I glance over at the chair, just inside the living room, and make the terrible decision to toss the bottle onto the chair.
Crash!
It doesn’t make it. Instead, it shatters on the tiled floor.
“Smooth …” Nate lifts his eyebrows, studying the mess on the floor. “I think you cracked the tile.”
“Oops. Shit.” I cringe. “Welp,” I sigh. “Good thing I know where the broom and dustpan are.” I make a wide turn to avoid the broken glass with my bare feet and grab the broom and dustpan from the garage.
“I feel like I just helped you clean up a mess on this floor.”
“You did.” I sweep up the mess and squat next to Nate, who’s holding the dustpan again to collect it.
He lifts his head, putting our faces a breath apart. “I don’t think you’re Jenna,” he whispers. “I didn’t kiss her that day in the kitchen.”
My lips rub together, remembering that kiss.
“I don’t have the emotional capacity to fall in love with you,” I say, staring at his mouth for a second before dragging my already sluggish gaze to his eyes. “And I just don’t want to. Love hurts too much.”
“Then don’t.” He closes the tiny space and kisses me.
I drop the broom. He drops the dustpan.
Nate’s hands frame my face, guiding me to standing while deepening the kiss. Afraid of the mess gathered at our feet, I break the kiss and glance down. He hooks his arm around my waist and lifts me up, taking a big step into the living room with its beige carpet and a blanket covered sofa.
He sits on it, positioning me to straddle his lap. I grin a second before kissing him. His hands settle on my hips for a long kiss. When I hum into it, he moves his hands to my ass, scooting me closer to him. Squirrel brain makes an attempt to focus on not dry humping my neighbor. It’s just a kiss. We knew there would be a second kiss.
It’s a really great second kiss. Technically, it’s a third kiss, but since the glass disrupted the second kiss, I’m declaring this Kiss 2.1.
Kiss 2.1 is better than the original second kiss. Maybe it’s his exploring tongue or his hands gripping my ass. Maybe it’s my braless nipples hard and rubbing against his chest. But most likely, it’s his erection pressed between my legs.
Do. Not. Dry. Hump. Him!
Squirrel brain knows what she’s talking about.
I lift on to my knees to get a better angle—just at his mouth.
“Ouch!” I pull back.
Nate eases his grip on me. “What? I’m sorry. Did I do something?”
Leaning to the right, I pull my left leg up to look at my knee. Something sharp cut into it.
“What is—”
“Oh my god … get it off!” I flinch as if I can disconnect the rest of my body from my leg and the huge, thick, yellow toenail partially embedded into my skin. “Yuck! Get. It. Off!” I flick at it, but it doesn’t move.