A few moments later, Nate comes back. “Thank you. You made her feel so welcome,” he says, then helps me clear the table.
I look at him with surprise.
“What?” he says.
“You. Clearing a table. Just seems…out of character somehow.”
He laughs. “There really isn’t that much to it.”
“I know, but didn’t you have servants and housekeepers growing up?” He still has a housekeeper come by to clean his place while he’s at work.
He snorts. “Ha. Don’t let Mom hear that. She’s very Midwest and very middle class. She managed the household on her own, and Justin and I had to do chores if we wanted an allowance growing up.”
“Wow.” That’s the polar opposite of what I imagined his childhood to be like. I assumed people like him had platoons of staff to take care of everything, up to and including tying his shoes.
“Barron didn’t care for it, and he sent ridiculous gifts and money for our birthdays and Christmas. They used to argue about that all the time.”
My respect for the woman goes up a hundred notches. It takes fortitude to argue with someone like Barron. “Did she win?”
“A lot of times, yeah. You know, my house, my family, my rules. Barron was always so annoyed.” He grins. “And we were disappointed, like all little brats. But now that we think back on it, she was right. Without her, we would’ve grown up into insufferable assholes.”
“I doubt it,” I say, remembering his attentive kindness to people whose jobs are to serve him. He never takes them for granted. Or thinks he’s entitled to their time and energy just because.
I open the dishwasher, but he shakes his head. “Hey, you cooked. And did a bang-up job. I can clean up.”
He loads the machine, dumps in some detergent and runs it like he’s done it hundreds of times. Then he grabs a brush and scrubs a couple of pots and pans that couldn’t fit into the dishwasher, having them sparkling clean in no time. He also knows which cleaner to use with the copper pan, and not to use any soap at all with the cast iron skillet. Yup, definitely grew up with chores. Oddly enough, it makes him seem more human. And more touchable, like we have something more in common.
Still, I wander into the living room, pretending to check something on my phone, because I don’t know how to approach the bedroom situation. With Blanche in the house, I can’t have a guest room. She would wonder. But sharing the room?
Come on. You put your suitcase in his room.
That was before I saw this incredibly normal, approachable side of him.
He comes out of the kitchen, drying his hands on a towel. “Want to get some sleep?”
It’s already ten. I should be in bed by now if I want to get up on time. On the other hand, I don’t have to drive here from my place, so maybe I can sleep in just a bit.
Sleep in, my ass. Stop procrastinating.
I swallow. “Um… Sure. Do you want to use the bathroom first?”
“Nope. Ladies first.”
I nod tightly and go to his bedroom. After taking out what I need from the suitcase I packed with my toiletries and night things, I change quickly into a pajama shirt and shorts, then floss and brush my teeth, erase my makeup and smooth some moisturizer on my face. I hesitate at the door. It’s awkward to be doing my nightly routine in Nate’s home. It isn’t like I’ve ever done it before with him. In Vegas, I fell into bed without even changing.
I inhale. I need to be an adult about this, especially if I’m going to be repeating the routine for the next six weeks—or until Blanche goes home, whichever comes first.
When I come out, Nate’s already in his boxers and lying on the covers of one side of his gigantic bed. It isn’t any more indecent than how he normally is in the morning. After all, at least he has an actual article of clothing on, rather than just a towel. But this feels much more familiar and sexual. Alarmingly so.
The soft light from the bedside lamp spills over his wide shoulders, sloping pecs and ridged abs. And his long, well-muscled legs. My hands curl with the itching need to touch, and see if they’re as warm and hard as they look. My mouth waters with a sudden urge to run my tongue over the hard contours of his body and steal a taste.
God. I’m acting like a horny teenager. Maybe it’s the fact that all those male goodies are spread out like a banquet before me. How long has it been since I had an orgasm from a non-battery-operated partner?
Over a year.
Think of something other than sex!
“The bathroom’s all yours now,” I say, gesturing behind me.