It was big, and cool, and perfectly soft. The sheets were dark gray, the manliest possible color except for black. As promised, there were blackout shades on the windows, which I gleefully used to block out the burning hot day outside. Then I tossed off my flip-flops and got in bed.
It smelled good. Clean. A little masculine, but not gross. I pictured Andrew getting in and out of this bed. How exactly did he do it? There were no handle bars on the walls. Nothing that indicated someone whose legs were paralyzed lived here.
Did he sleep naked?
Did he sleep alone?
A guy in a wheelchair could get dates, especially if he looked likethat.Dark hair, trim dark beard, incredible cheekbones. Eyes that had a gleam of relentless intelligence and missed nothing. Tightly muscled chest. Standing in front of him, in person for the first time, I’d felt like his gaze stripped me naked in the very best way.
His shoulders were hot, too, as were his arms in his T-shirt. I had a weakness for nice biceps.
For the first time, I let myself wonder if his injury had affected his ability to have sex.
I shouldn’t be thinking about him like that—as if he were a piece of meat. He was my neighbor, and he had a life that was much harder than mine. He was doing me a favor. Aside from his looks—and his prickly personality—I actually liked him. He was funny and smart and fascinating. I was lonely here in Michigan. Okay, to be honest, I’d been lonely in L.A., too. All my life, really. It felt good that I’d found someone I could be friends with.
“Friends,” I mumbled to myself, snuggling into the pillow that smelled like him. “Definitely friends.” And then I tumbled into nothingness.
* * *
I woke to cool darkness.I was groggy and completely relaxed. I hadn’t slept so well since leaving L.A. Since before that, in fact—my last apartment in L.A. was hot and the walls were paper-thin.
I rolled over and blinked sleepily. Then I remembered my audition.
I bolted out of bed and opened the bedroom door, stepping out into the hallway, sweat breaking on my skin. Where the hell was I, and what time was it?
“Relax,” said a familiar voice. “You’re not late.”
I turned. At the end of the short hallway was the living room, where Andrew was sitting at his work station. He was quietly bent over his graphics tablet, pen in hand, his features still with concentration. His profile was to me, and I stared at him for a second as I got my bearings.
Andrew paused what he was doing and turned his head, looking at me. His eyebrows went up. “You okay?”
“What time is it?” I asked, my voice a rasp.
“Two-thirty.”
I blinked, doing the math. “I’ve been asleep forsix hours?”
“I guess you were tired.”
Jesus. It had felt like ten minutes, tops. I touched my hair, which I could feel was standing on end. My clothes were askew and I probably had red pillow-marks on my face. “Uh,” I said, suddenly self-conscious. “I guess I’ll clean up.”
“Bathroom is to your right,” Andrew said.
In the bathroom mirror, I was a disaster. I was sweaty and wild-eyed, a warmed-over cadaver. I patted my hair ineffectually, then remembered I was going to a casting call. In which I was supposed to look good.
There was a brief knock on the door. “You want your bag?” Andrew asked, as if reading my mind. “You can take a shower if you want.”
I opened the door to find him just outside, holding my bag out to me. “You’re being awfully nice to me,” I said, taking it.
“The sooner you shower, the sooner you leave,” he said logically. “Also, in return for my hospitality, you can make me a sandwich when you’re done.”
“I never agreed to that,” I said.
“You will. I’m just thinking of a way to word it.”
I closed the door in his face.
His bathroom was spacious—big enough to accommodate his wheelchair. The vanity was low, I realized, as was the mirror. The shower had a bench in it.