by Emma Hart
I’d never see him look as if his entire world was inches away from being dropped out from under him.
We’d never kiss. Hug. Touch. Speak.
We’d never acknowledge the other existed.
I’d never get to sit on his sofa and listen to a little, spunky blonde girl tell me everything she knew about the princesses until she was blue in the face.
Why did that terrify me?
Three days ago, I’d hated him.
Was this the consequence of the truth? Did it really distort reality this much? Was perspective truly so screwed by such a tiny lie?
“I’m not in the mood anyway,” I said. “I have a headache.”
“I have Ibuprofen for that,” he said, smiling.
“It’s a stress headache. That movie was so far from the original…” I trailed off. “But it’s not that late.”
Elliott leaned his head back. “So, I’m done talking about my issues. Tell me about Pick-A-Dick.”
“Uh…no.”
“Why?”
“Because. It’s weird. You were the dick that was picked for me, and I’m not sure how I feel about the process.”
He laughed, reaching out to me. His fingers slid through my hair, and my scalp tingled. I’d never realized that touching hair was so intimate—I was used to pulling, not touching.
This was that. Touching. A slow, easy touch from hairline to hairline that made me shiver from the sensation of it.
“Well, if my feelings count,” Elliott said, running his fingers through to the tips of my hair until the ends fell away onto my chest. “I’m feeling pretty good about it.”
I brushed that hair away and, unable to hide my smile, ducked my head the tiniest bit. “Do you really think everything would have changed if I hadn’t been an ass to you in school?”
“Yes,” he said simply. “I won’t lie. I think it would have been, and I didn’t lie when I said I feel as though I would have fallen in love with you.”
My stomach tightened into knots. “What about now? Are you happy it happened the way it did?”
Slowly, he nodded. “Yeah. I am. If it didn’t, we wouldn’t be here right now.”
“Is that a good thing?”
His gaze collided with mine with a waterfall of honesty and genuine, heart-tugging reality. “Yeah, baby. I think so.”
It was, wasn’t it?
A good thing.
Despite it all.
This was good.
Now, it was my turn to nod slowly. “What’s the time?”
“Almost ten. I usually head to bed around now,” Elliott said. “Six-thirty comes quicker than you’d think.”
“True. Okay. If I have to stay…”
“You do.”
“Let’s go.”
He finally allowed me to move my legs from his, and I stood and followed him. He left all the boxes and dishes in the room without an iota of concern, and that made me smile, even if a little twitchy.
He also didn’t notice the naked Barbie under the coffee table. Or the odd-looking miniature koala by the TV.
I stepped into his room, a cool mix of blues and blacks. Black dominated the furniture fixtures, but the textiles were all blue, with the exception of the floor. That was the same laminate that decorated the rest of the house.
It felt like an after-thought, once that didn’t matter as long as princesses and animals existed.
I was alone, so I looked around the entire room. The rug next to his bed was crooked. The lights on the nightstands weren’t evenly positioned, and the pillows on the bed were a hot mess.
A TV sat on the dresser at the end of the bed. The remote was on the floor, partially tucked under the bed, and I picked it up so it didn’t get lost.
I set it on the nightstand, only to sit on the bed to undress and catch a glimpse of two pairs of his undies and some jeans on the floor on the other side of the bed.
I tossed myself onto my side and looked over. Yep. I was right. Dirty undies and pants.
It made me twitch.
“What are you doing?” Elliott walked in with his shirt off.
My eyes darted across the perfect plains of his muscled torso before I met his gaze. “Your dirty clothes are on the floor. There’s dust everywhere.”
“Perks of being a builder.” He stopped and undid his jeans. They fell from his hips to the floor, and when he stepped out of them, he simply kicked them to the side.
They flew across the floor.
Hit the wall.
Slumped against it.
Don’t do it, Peyton. Don’t go tidy freak.
“I can’t cope with this.” I reached over the side of the bed. My hand made instant contact with the dirty clothes. I scooped them up, not caring that his underwear was dirty, and got up from the bed.
The next stop was where he’d kicked off his pants.
“Where’s your laundry?” I asked, picking up today’s jeans.
He looked at me. Looked away. Back at me. “Bathroom. Next door. There’s a big basket in there.”
I carried the pile of clothes out of the room, leaving behind his confused but amused expression.
Just like he’d said, there was a laundry basket split into three bags. Black. White. Color.
That made my soul happy.
I divided all the colors out until I noticed that the color section was bulging. My fingers twitched.
I couldn’t do his laundry.
I wouldn’t do his laundry.
That would be weird.
Wouldn’t it?
***
“What are you doing?” Elliott stood in the doorway of his utility room.
It was a tiny room, barely big enough for the washer, dryer, and a sink, but he’d caught me red-handed.
I was pairing his fucking socks, for the love of God.
“Pairing your socks,” I said simply. “Your washer and dryer were full, but the basket upstairs was about to overflow.”
He looked at me, lips pulled to the side, amusement dancing in his eyes.
“So, I had to wash it,” I went on. “But your dryer was full. So, I pulled out the dry stuff, put the wet stuff in the dryer, then put the dirty stuff into the wash.”
“That doesn’t tell me why I’m watching you fondle my socks.”
I was playing with a ball of something, and when I looked down, I saw the folded pair of socks. Immediately, I tossed them to the “ready” pile and cleared my throat.
“I had to fold it,” I said simply. “I have issues with laundry.”
“You’re OCD.” He grinned.
“I’m not OCD!” I stood up and put a shirt in the clean pile. “I’m obsessively neat. There’s a big difference. I can control my need to be tidy. I just…sleep better with the knowledge there aren’t pants on the floor.”
Elliott held out both hands. “Well, Peyt, it’s been thirty minutes. You don’t have to fold my pants while wearing your underwear.”
I looked at the pile of laundry.
“But—”
He grabbed me. I was thrown over his shoulder in an instant, and he literally hauled me out of the utility room and up the stairs. I groaned.
It wasn’t my fault I was a tidy person, damn it.
He took me right into his room and put me back on the bed. “Did you tidy the living room, too?”
“I might have put the pizza boxes in the kitchen,” I replied, refusing to meet eye contact.
“You’re OCD.”
“I just told you, I’m not. I’m tidy.”
“Tidy people don’t get eye twitches because of laundry.”
“So, I’m really, really tidy.” I threw out my arms. “Is that a bad thing? I’m not obsessively clean. I won’t start running my fingertips over the top of your TV to check for dust.”
He shook his head and got into the bed next to me. “You would not like it if you did.”
I jerked around to look at him, alarmed.
He grinned smugly. “Let me guess: you have iss
ues with dust?”
“If I know it’s there,” I muttered, looking away again. “Everything has a place, and the place for dust is on my cloth.”
His laugh sent tingles down my spine. “You’re the craziest person I’ve ever met.”
“Why? Because I don’t like pants on the floor and dust?”
“And pizza boxes in the living room,” he pointed out, moving closer to me and gently coaxing me to lie down.
I did, and he propped his head up on his hand.
“That doesn’t make me crazy. It makes me clean.”
“And slightly weird in someone else’s house.”
“You give me orgasms; I clean your house. We both win here. Don’t be picky.”
He laughed again, this time, leaning down to kiss me. “I’m not complaining. Feel free to come and clean every day if you like.”
“Really?”
He paused. “You sound way too excited about that prospect.”
I screwed up my face. “I might be a little obsessive. I like cleaning. It’s calming. My job is stressful.”
“Your job is stressful? Peyton, your job is to look at dicks all day.”
“Which would be much more enjoyable if it were porn,” I pointed out. “But, I also share a space with my brother and Chloe, and that is stressful. So is finding a man who isn’t intimidated by my millionaire client but is driven enough to keep up with her, um, appetite.”
“Well,” Elliott said slowly. “When you leave me standing in the dust, I could use a nice millionaire to help my legal fees.”
“Oh, I don’t know if I’m leaving you yet,” I replied, meeting his eyes. “At least until I’ve cleaned your house.”
“You’re not leaving me?” His lips twitched up. “How are you going to win this bet?”
“Well, the way I see it, there are two options.” I held up one finger. “First, we never have sex again.”
“How does that solve the problem?”
“I have to have sex with someone three times in two weeks and not fall in love. If we don’t have sex, it’s void.”
“Or he’ll make you find someone else to have sex with,” he said with an edge to his voice.
Interesting.
“And how does that make you feel?” I asked, teasing.
“How you feel about my pants being on the bedroom floor.”
“Ooh. Intense. Maybe we scrap that one.” I grinned at him. “The other option that we do it right here, right now, and boom. I win. We’re not in love. At least, I know I’m not.”
He laughed. “I’m not in love with you, Peyton.”
I hesitated. “There feels like there’s more to that sentence that you’re not saying.”
Elliott’s eyes met mine. “Yet. I’m not in love with you yet.”
Why did my heart skip a beat at that sound?
I didn’t want to love him. I didn’t want him to love me. Our lives were so different that it seemed so…so…
Weird.
It was easy to be with him. Easy to be with Briony.
But to be in love with him?
It would be too easy, yet too hard at the same time.
“Oh,” I said.
“Oh?” His lips quirked to the side. “That’s a small response for a big silence.”
“I wasn’t expecting that,” I admitted.
His eyes searched my face. “Does it scare you?”
I looked at him. Did it scare me? I had no control over it, and that scared me. But the idea of it? I may not have wanted him to fall in love with me, but that didn’t mean I was scared of the idea.
No. I wasn’t scared of Elliott falling in love with me.
I was scared of me falling for him.
I shook my head. “It doesn’t scare me.”
“I feel like you’re the one leaving something unfinished.”
“I’m scared that I’ll fall in love with you.”
“Why?”
“Because your life is so different to mine. And that change is terrifying.”
He smoothed my hair away from my face with his roughened fingers. “Falling in love with someone isn’t a marriage proposal, Peyton. The only change you’d have to make in your life is that I’m the only person you can have sex with.”
I snorted into my hand.
“Because I don’t share well,” he said through his own laughter. “And just like when someone takes my pizza, I’m liable to get mad.”
“I have to admit to being selfish, too. Especially about pizza.”
“See? Who knew we’d have that in common?”
I couldn’t help but smile at him.
“Seriously, your life doesn’t change just because you fall in love with someone. You wouldn’t be responsible for Briony just because we’d be in a relationship. Sure, you’d have to listen to her ramble on for hours about ponies and princesses and koala bears. You might have to watch Disney movies—”
“Totally okay with the movies,” I interrupted, making him smile.
“—and you might be witness to the occasional hurricane-strength meltdown, but you’d just be fun.” His fingers went through my hair again. “You wouldn’t be responsible for daycare, or manners, or teaching her wrong from right. None of that would be your responsibility, maybe ever. You’ll always have your freedom, Peyt. You’re too wild to have your wings clipped.”
I swallowed.
How was this fair? How was it that he understood exactly what scared me without me hinting at it?
It was only some ten days ago that I’d walked into that restaurant, sick to my stomach. Angry and confused and hating him.
Now, I was lying in his bed, faced with the very real potential that I was falling in love with him.
“I mean, I’m a little intimidated by the meltdown thing,” I said, raising my eyebrows. “Hurricane-strength?”
He grimaced and nodded. “Doesn’t happen often, but when it does, we’re talking kicking and screaming and fighting. I call it a hurricane tantrum because it’s the kind of situation where you make sure she’s safe and then hunker down until it passes.”
I cough-laughed. “Comparable to Chloe this morning?”
“Like ten Chloes on their period.”
I winced. “Ouch. That’s…intense.”
“You have no idea.” He rolled onto his back and checked the time on his phone. “We should sleep.”
Sleep? How was I supposed to sleep now?
“Sure.” I smiled and pulled the covers right over me. Elliott turned off the light and, after shifting in the bed, pulled me into him. I laid my head on his chest, and he wrapped one arm tight around my body.
“I still can’t believe you held that grudge for ten years,” he muttered into the darkness.
“I’m a woman. I remember everything. Even the time in science where you passed me a note that said I was pretty, then I balled it up and threw it at you. I didn’t want to be pretty. I wanted to learn chemistry.”
His whole body shook with silent laughter. “I remember that now. Then, you told me after class that if I was going to hit on you, I should have the balls to hit on you to your face.”
“I still stand by that notion. The only notes I want in my life are Post-It notes.”
“Peyt?”
“What?”
“You’re pretty.”
I laughed quietly, tilting my head back. I was just about able to meet his eyes in the darkness. “Thank you,” I said quietly. “And you’re rather handsome yourself.”
“I know,” he replied.
I lightly smacked his stomach and snuggled back in. “You’re an idiot.”
“Yeah, but I’m a handsome idiot.”
“Elliott? Go to sleep.”
Chapter Eighteen – Peyton
You can’t control what somebody else does with their pants. You can only pick them up and beat them with them.
Whipping, in particular, is effective. And fun.
Elliott stood with his hands on his hips in the living
room doorway.
I froze, mid-wipe of the TV. “Um, it was dusty?”
Stoic-faced, he cast his gaze over every inch of the now-clean living room. “Woman, you have a problem.”
“Yes. Your ability to dust and do laundry is troublesome,” I replied.
“Peyton. It’s six a.m. Why are you cleaning?”
I sighed, letting go of the cloth. “I woke up to pee. Your towels were wonky, and one thing lead to another. I did your laundry, too.”
“It’s six in the morning,” he repeated. “When did you pee? Three in the morning?”
“An hour ago.” I shifted. “I’m quick.”
“Quick? How did you do all of this in an hour?”
“I bleached your toilet, too.” I smiled sweetly.
He stared at me, then shook his head and walked into the kitchen. I followed him, but not before I finished wiping off the top of the TV.
Maybe I was a little crazy.
“Are you mad?”
Elliott burst out laughing, grabbing a mug. “Peyton, you just cleaned my house. I’m not mad, I’m confused.”
“Why are you confused?”
“Because. I find it hard to reconcile the outspoken, sexy woman I know with this frantic mess who can’t stand having dirty pants on the floor.”
“I don’t exactly shout my…quirk…to the world.” I put the cloth in the sink and leaned against the side. “We all have something we keep to ourselves, and the cleaning thing is mine. Most people just think I’m an exceptionally tidy person because I’m a control freak.”
“You’re not a control freak?”
“You think I’m a control freak?”
“You’re a little control freakish,” Elliott admitted. “The first time we slept together? You literally dictated to me how it had to go.”
“And you followed orders exceptionally well.”
His lips twitched. “It’s not a bad thing. You like everything just so.”
“You don’t think it’s weird that I started folding your laundry last night?”
“Oh no, it’s weird.” He laughed, wrapping his arms around my shoulders. “But it’s a good kind of weird. And I kind of want to ask if you know how to get juice out of a satin dress.”