As I’m digging through my bag for my favorite Lululemon leggings and crop sweatshirt, I realize after I shower I no longer have an excuse to wear his hoodie. I don’t feel ready to part with it, either. With my clean clothes in one hand, I stare down at them for a second before turning to a still-stretching Atticus on the floor.
“I was gonna shower, but maybe we have coffee first?”
He moves around on the ground, collecting his blanket and pillow, then stands. “Do you want coffee first?”
His eyes slide down my body as he waits for my answer.
“I don’t know, do you?”
His head tips to the side, not impatient but more apathetically. “What?” I ask.
“Goldie, do you want to drink coffee right now or take a shower right now?”
I bring the sleeve of his sweatshirt to my nose and pretend I’m itching my face but secretly take another hit of his scent. It’s wearing off a little, but I can still smell him, and it warms up my insides. “Coffee first would be good,” I saybecause I do not want to take your sweatshirt off.
“Can you hand me my henley?” he asks, dropping his eyes to the bunched-up shirt on the floor.
I narrow my gaze. “Did you hurt your back last night sleeping on the floor, and now you can’t even bend over?” I bring my hands to my face, shaking my head. “Oh my god, Atticus, I’m such an asshole. You should have put me on the floor. I was drunk; I wouldn’t have known! And your back is hurt, and you work in a shop, and your back can’t be hurt–” my rambling (since when do I ramble?) is brought to a stop when Atticus closes his eyes, sighs heavily (why do I feel it between my legs?), and raises his palm to my face.
“My back isn’t hurt,” he says with an exasperated sigh.
“Oh,” I say, blinking in confusion. “Well, that’s good. I just assumed since you couldn’t bend over that you hurt your back.” Though I’m still confused as I grab the henley from the floor and hand it to him. Reaching behind me, he sets the blanket on the foot of the bed and then the pillow too.
I watch with far too much interest and suspense as he pulls the henley over his head, hiding a ton of ink and muscle from my sight. Damn cold weather. Why couldn’t Beau’s dad have a fucking beach house? Then, as he’s twisting the sleeves to get the seams correctly aligned, my eyes fall to his lingerie. And by lingerie, I definitely mean gray sweats because isn’t that what sweats are to women? I lick my lips at the sight of the weathered waistband, and thenI see it.
“Oh,” I say, sounding a lot like I did last night under the table. “I see. You have a morning tripod situation happening.”
He re-ties his man-bun, and I get a whiff of under his arms. He smells like he slathered on deodorant, then made a fire and cooked and slept on the floor. I mean, he did do all that so that makes sense why he smells that way. What doesn’t make sense is why the smell of wood and sweat is making my lower half seize and clench like I’m building to another orgasm.
“Don’t get your wheels turnin’ on me being a perv, either. I have no control over how hard I get in the morning. It’s chemistry.”
I drape a hand over my non-existent pearls. “I would never accuse you of being a perv,” I say like the guilty little morning masturbator I am. If I hadn’t rubbed one out this morning, I’d probably be giving him shit right now, but my guilt is making me nice. I only hope he doesn’t know.
Once his shirt and hair are adjusted to his liking–which, by the way, is total bullshit that it takes him less than one minute to look like a fucking walking pussy grab, and I’ll be holed up in a tiny bathroom for an hour and still come out feeling underwhelming.
“God, men have it so easy,” I say, rolling my eyes as I walk out of the room toward the main living space. The floor dips and groans behind me, telling me Atticus is on my trail.
“What do we have easy?” he asks as he crouches in front of the open fireplace, surveying the heap of wood next to it. He begins breaking small pieces over his knee and setting them up around the orange embers inside.
“Everything,” I say, pulling my knees to my chest on the couch where I’ve already flopped down. My head hurts, and my stomach is already complaining so sitting is what suits me best right now. “I mean, you took like thirty seconds to get ready, and it takes me like two hours to get ready, and you look just as good.” Reaching for my hair tie, I pull it loose, letting my naturally-dried frizzy mess fall down around my shoulders and back.
“I mean, look. I was in the snow for five seconds and look at my hair. I look like Marv when he gets electrocuted inHome Alone. And you were in the same snow for even longer, and look at you.”
“I can’t look at me,” he deadpans as the fire begins to come alive. God, even his fire making turns me on. He’s officially turned me into a cavewoman.
“You know what I mean,” I say, rolling my eyes even though he isn’t looking. “I rolled my eyes at you just now, just so you know.”
“I’m sure you did,” he deadpans as he shoves another piece of split wood into the flames.
“Anyway, I’m just saying men are so effortless. It’s just not fair how much women have to worry about and men don’t.”
He rubs his palms on his thighs before standing up. Without glancing my way, he moves through the cabin into the kitchen. There’s some clicking, and then he’s back.
“Coffee will be ready in five.” He flops down on the opposite end of the couch. “Some dudes take forever getting ready. Trimming and shaving and gelling their hair and shit. And then they try on different shirts with stupid, tiny pants that are always too short.” He scratches at the side of his fuzzy jaw. “Why do dudes do that? Wear those tight, short pants that show their ankles? Fuckin’ stupid.”
“Cigarette pants,” I giggle, knowing exactly what he’s talking about. “And I think they can be sexy.” I pause a second, considering this next bit before I say it. This is what got me in trouble last night. I turn and analyze his deliciously rugged profile for a moment, then add, “Beau has cigarette pants. I’ve seen him in them.”
Atticus faces me, glaring. “You sure you wanna be talking ‘bout Beau this much?”