I swear my nostrils are flaring; he is so annoying!
Duke hits play, ignoring my little mini outburst, remote control resting in the palm of his hands, feet and legs swaying contently.
At least one of us is satisfied.
I zip my lips shut to resist the urge to comment, knowing that if I do, he’ll pause the television.
Didn’t take me long to figure him out—not only is he a “show talker” but he’s a “show pauser”—two of the worst offenders. Briefly, I wonder what he’s like at the movies. Does he sit and ask questions? Or does he sit silently?
Silently? Ha!
Highly unlikely. The man wants to chatter away as if it weren’t ten at night.
I yawn.
I don’t usually watch TV in bed as I’m falling asleep, and certainly not with a giant man at the foot of it.
Duke shifts.
Shifts again, getting comfortable, turning this way and that.
I can’t help it when my eyes stray to his broad shoulders; they’re being illuminated by the glow of the television screen. He’s tan everywhere as if he practices with no shirt on in the summer sun or spends some time in a tanning booth?
I’m not about to ask which one it is.
I don’t know much about football, but I don’t think they’re playing right now, and I’m not sure if they’re practicing yet? I feel like the season starts when it’s cold and goes through winter?
I won’t ask for the risk of sounding like a fool.
His back has more muscles in it than I’ve ever seen, tapering down into a narrow waist. As a scene on the television changes, so does the shadowing on his body, and I catch sight of Venus dimples on his lower back, just above the waistband of his boxer shorts.
I let my eyes linger lower.
His thighs are thick, calves incredibly defined. He must spend hours working out in the gym.
Duh, Posey—of course he does. That’s literally his job. Being fit and in shape.
His stamina must be amazing…
Just then, Duke turns his head and looks back at me; catches me eyeballing his ass, which I could do without.
His brows rise.
Looks back at the television as if my perusal doesn’t bother him in the least—or he’s used to it. Or both.
Probably comes with the territory.
I’ve seen plenty of photos of him online where he’s shirtless, and he was shirtless today when he was fixing the deck.
But having a living, breathing Duke Colter in my room is different. Here’s the thing: I’m not totally immune to him. He’s young and so freaking cute, and such an idiot. The sight of him resting here, on my bed, has my heart… I don’t know. I can’t tell if it’s skipping or if it’s my stomach or if it’s something else.
He shifts, moving again.
Then he sits up and readjusts, dragging himself to the headboard, reclining back on my pillows the same way I’m doing.
I pretend not to be fazed.
He smells so good.