ve a good time and walk away unscathed.
Right.
A door slammed on the other side of my bedroom wall, startling me. My hand flinched and a blotch of paint hit the ceiling. “Dammit.”
I grabbed a rag that I’d hung on the ladder and stretched to blot the paint. The ceiling had been white at one time, but the aged gray it’d become was definitely not a match with the new paint. Sonofabitch. Now I was going to have to paint that, too.
Music cranked up on the other side of the wall as Foster moved around the room. I tossed the rag down to the drop cloth below in frustration. Great, just what I needed—the torture of picturing Foster coming home from work and stripping off one of those tailored suits of his. Tie unknotting, buttons flicking open, zipper lowering . . . that beautiful naked body striding across the room.
My insides clenched, and I had to grab on to the top of the ladder to keep myself steady. Another door sounded and heavy footsteps. Usually I couldn’t hear all of this so well, but I sensed Foster stomping around a bit, maybe mad. Did he have a bad day at work?
I shook my head. Not my concern. Focus. I dipped my brush in the paint can and rose up on my toes again, doing my best to reach the last corner and block out thoughts of the guy on the other side of the wall. But as I stretched one last inch, the ladder teetered beneath me.
“Shit!” I grasped for the wall, something, but it was a lost cause. My weight had pitched too far to the left, and I was going down. My shoulder crashed against the sticky wall, followed by the clanging ladder and the half-full can of paint. I landed half on my bed, then slid to the floor, pulling the drop cloth with me. All of my air left me with an oof, and paint spread along the floor like a creeping white oil spill.
I closed my eyes, trying to catch my breath and not cry. I’d gotten lucky on the fall, but the mess all around me was like ripping the last shred of fabric in my I’m-totally-together sham. The move. Graduation. New job. New guy. Losing my virginity. All of it piled on me, threatening to smother me with the weight of it all.
But I wasn’t allowed to wallow long. A loud rapping sound came from the other side of the apartment, yanking me from my spiral of doom.
“Cela!”
The booming voice was all-too familiar, and I almost couldn’t bring myself to go face it. But girl-who’s-okay-with-it-all wouldn’t be afraid to answer the door. That girl would be all cool and “Hey, what’s up?”
So with only a thread of dignity intact, I wiped off my hands and pushed up from the floor. I stepped around the mess and made my way to the front door, where Foster was banging again, calling for me.
I pulled the door open, realizing too late how I must look, and found a frantic-eyed Foster. He stepped inside and put his hands on my shoulders, his gaze scanning me as if searching for blood. “Good God, what the hell was that? Are you okay?”
I shoved my hair out of my face, trying to stay nonchalant even though the simple act of him touching me had my heart flipping over. “I’m okay. Just klutzy. I uh . . . fell off a ladder.”
He touched the side of my hair. “Christ, did you hit your head? Hurt anything? From my side of the wall, it sounded like the whole room collapsed.”
I should say yes, that I did hit my head. Then I could explain away the ridiculous urge to kiss him, to tuck myself into his embrace. “No, luckily my ass took most of the impact,” I said, attempting a joke. “Good thing for the extra cushion.”
A little flicker of something lit the center of those blue irises of his, and I couldn’t hold the eye contact any longer. He let his touch drop away, and for the first time since I’d opened the door, I noticed he was wearing leather pants. Leather? In June?
But as my gaze drifted down, and I took in the way the pants hugged him just right, outlining what I knew lay beneath them, thoughts of weather evaporated from my mind. I wet my lips, tasted paint. Terrific.
He chuckled and wiped a smudge of white from my cheek. “You do realize that you’re supposed to get paint on the walls, right?”
I looked up at him again, arms crossed. “Are you seriously going to kick a girl when she’s down?”
The corner of that sensuous mouth curled. “No, I’m not quite that mean.”
That statement had a layer to it I didn’t want to peel back, but my mind couldn’t help but wander there. I shook off the illicit images that flickered through my mind like a movie reel. Foster being a little rough with me that last night together, Foster demanding things of me the night in the hotel.
I cleared my throat. “Well, I’m fine. My floor not so much. But thanks for checking on me. Didn’t mean to interrupt . . .” I gave him an up and down look. “Whatever it is that calls for leather pants in ninety-degree heat.”
He shifted, dark brows falling to brooding level. “Cela.”
“What does one wear leather pants for anyway?” I asked, knowing I didn’t want to hear the answer, but unable to stop myself. “You don’t own a motorcycle, do you?”
“No,” he answered, the simple word holding warning.
“So what then?” I knew what I sounded like, could hear that hint of challenge and jealousy trickle into my voice. It was completely uncalled for and totally out of my control. Irrational girl, aisle one.
“I think it’s best we don’t have this conversation,” he said, all still waters and calm authority.
“Right,” I said, the word sharp as a jab. “Of course. You jumped on my case for keeping secrets that first night, but you get to hold on to your own. That’s fair.”