One of the joys of living in an old building.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
“Not particularly,” I tell him as I wander into my bedroom and set my duffel bag on the edge of the unmade bed. I’m such a sloppy mess, and if I wasn’t in so much pain, I’d be scrambling about, tossing clothes in the washing basket, shoving shoes in the tiny wardrobe and making my bed. I’d run into the bathroom and pick up the towels on the floor, take the bras that dangle over the shower rod down, and try my best to appear as if I have my shit together.
But I don’t have my shit together. I’m a bit of a disaster sometimes, at least when it comes to housekeeping. When you’re raised with servants who pick everything up for you, how do you ever learn to clean up after yourself?
I sound like a spoiled brat, but it’s true.
“Hey.”
I glance up to find Cannon literally filling my bedroom doorway. He’s so tall, he has to hunker down to fit, his arms above his head, hands gripping the top edge of the doorframe. Goodness, he’s large, and I’ve rubbed myself all over that large body multiple times.
Despite the injuries and the pain and the difficulty I have breathing, I’m tempted to jump on him and beg him to have his way with me.
“Yes?” I ask, clearing my throat.
“First of all, you shouldn’t be cleaning up.” He enters my bedroom, glancing around the messy room. “We’ll fix this later,” he says, returning his gaze to mine.
“Fine,” I say with a sigh, dropping the edge of the quilt that covers my bed.
“Second, I’m starving, and you have no food in your kitchen beyond some condiments in the fridge and stale crackers in a cupboard.”
I grimace. “I’m a terrible cook.” As in, I don’t do it. Ever. Stems from that same problem I have about cleaning. When you have cooks who prepare you delicious meals morning, noon and night, you don’t need to learn how to work in a kitchen.
“Know of any restaurants who deliver?” he asks hopefully.
“Plenty,” I tell him as I whip my phone out of my yoga pants’ pocket and open up a delivery app I use before I hand it over to him. “Look through the menus and see what you want.”
“Awesome.” He’s scrolling through my phone, pausing every once in a while, and I just stand there staring at him, still in disbelief over the fact that he’s here. With me. In my home.
All mine. To keep forever and forever.
Well. I don’t know about that last part.
“You hungry?” he asks me when I remain quiet.
“You already asked me that a few minutes ago, remember?” I smile at him.
“Oh yeah, that’s right. When I’m starving like this, I can’t concentrate well,” he admits sheepishly. He taps a few buttons the screen and then hands my phone back over to me. “I ordered something. It’ll be here in thirty. Think I can borrow your shower?”
I bite my lip. “It’s probably a mess. I had a body scrub spill last week.”
“Is that like an oil spill in the ocean?” he teases.
“Sort of,” I offer with a shrug, not willing to explain that I spilled half the tub of body scrub and it’s so thick, I gave up trying to clean it. “I’m just warning you. It’s probably not going to be the tidiest shower in the world.”
“I don’t care. I just need to get this plane sweat off of me. As long as you have a bar of soap and a clean towel, I’m good,” he declares.
“A bar of soap? How very primitive of you,” I say primly.
“Damn, I love it when you sound all snotty like that.” He swats my butt, making me squeal, and I glare at him as he exits my bedroom. “Come on, girlfriend. Let’s get you settled on the couch so I can jump in the shower.”
I love how he oh-so-casually called me girlfriend. And I love that he’s wanting to take care of me. So I let him. He positions me on the couch just so, with a few pillows from my bed propping me up and my favorite cozy throw draped over my body. Despite my protests, he’s turned on the heat and promises to pay the bill, so I give in. My parents give me a substantial allowance, but I’m still cheap when it comes to heat. I blame it on growing up in a drafty house.
Cannon rummages around in the kitchen and brings me a cold bottle of water, though I’d rather have tea. But I don’t trust his American ways to make me a proper cup, so I’ll deal with that later.
He hands over the remote, asks me if I need anything else, and then he’s locked away in my bathroom, r