“Whoa, that was fun. We should do this again,” Tabby slurred as DB guided her toward the door.
“Mi trampolin es tu trampolin, girl. Take a chicken as well, if you want?”
Putting his hand over his wife’s mouth and wrapping an arm around her waist to stop her agreeing and going back for one, my son thanked Evie and steered Tabby out to their car.
I knew where Evie’s bedroom was, and I’m not going to deny that. Her bedroom faced my home office, and there may have been a couple of occasions where she forgot to close the curtains. I hadn’t been a sneaky pervert and stared at her, but I’d caught a glimpse of her wrapped in a towel or taking her top off after she got home from work.
Just to say, both of those instances were branded into my brain.
Evie Edwards ticked all of my boxes, both in personality and looks. I’d always preferred curvy women, and even my wife had been shaped that way.
And Evie’s curves in just a towel or her underwear—there was no forgetting it.
As we entered her room, I did a cursory glance around. I could lie and say I did it to make sure there wasn’t anything she could trip over and that it was totally for her safety and wellbeing, but I wasn’t a liar.
No, I did it because I was interested in who Evita Edwards really was, and some of those answers would be evident in what was in her bedroom—her private space.
Her bedding was a pale blue with tiny white dots on it, and her bed was immaculately made. I couldn’t sleep in an unmade bed, so I made sure I did it every morning, but hers was almost a work of art.
At the bottom of it, folded over, was a cream blanket with a faint pattern that I couldn’t make out on it. I was also guessing that her preferred side was the one with a small wicker basket with what looked like makeup remover wipes and whatever other unguents she used on her face next to it, so I steered her toward it.
Of course I continued taking in details as I did it, though.
The furniture was the same light wood as the bedside tables, including the blanket box at the end of the bed, the drawer units, and the dressing table. Instead of curtains, she had white wooden shutters that matched the door to her walk-in closet.
Everything was tidy and organized. Not obsessively so, but in a way that said she put things away after herself, but she wouldn’t lose sleep if it didn’t happen. Proof of this was the two pairs of shoes waiting in front of the door to the closet and a makeup box that hadn’t been shut with some stuff from it still on the dressing table.
It was what I would call ‘tidy human standards,’ and I liked it.
I just didn’t want to like it.
“I need a t-shirt,” she muttered as she sat down heavily on the edge of the bed.
Moving over to where the drawer unit was, I opened the top drawer and froze when I saw it contained her underwear. Neatly folded panties organized by color on one side, bras on the other.
In the middle were the items that made me groan internally—the ‘special sets.’ Those were the ones that matched each other and were designed to make men lose their minds. Lace. Silk. Satin. Sheer.
Just looking at them and imagining her wearing them was already making me lose my mind and proving my point that they made men go crazy.
Clearing my throat, I asked, “Which drawer are your t-shirts in, honey?”
When she didn’t answer, I looked back over my shoulder to find Evie fast asleep in a ball.
If I’d been a nice guy, it wouldn’t have crossed my mind to bring tonight up ever again. The thing was, she brought out a side of me that wanted to be part of the randomness and weirdness that came with her, regardless of what I’d said to DB.
So there was no way in hell I’d let her live tonight down.
And to start it off, I set an alarm on the Alexa beside her bed for 9.30 am. Oh, not just any alarm, but one that played Jump Around.
Chapter Five
Evie
“Could you do some of those big curls in it when you’re finished?” my customer asked as I brushed out her wet hair.
“Of course. I was going to use the straighteners to smooth it out, but all it takes is some twisting with them to get the big curls.”
The lady sneered at me through the reflection in the mirror. “I mean, proper barrel curls with a curler. I don’t use a flat-iron on my hair.”
Now, this was an issue. I had a couple of major phobias, and curling tongs was one of them.