by R. C. Martin
I grip her chin harder as I cough out a laugh. “I’m not doing that,” I state matter-of-factly.
“But I—”
“You’re shivering, Teddy. You need a hot shower and some dry clothes.” As the words fall out of my mouth, an idea comes to mind. I don’t even think twice about it before I let go of her face and shift into reverse.
“Wait—where, where are we going?”
“You’re coming home with me,” I tell her, backing out of the parking spot.
“What?!” she shrieks. “Judah—no. That—oh, god—that is not necessary.”
“When will this friend of yours be home, Teddy?” I ask, pretty certain I already know that the answer isn’t soon. When she doesn’t reply at all, I roll my eyes. “That’s what I thought.”
“But, Judah—I don’t even—I mean—I can’t come over to your house!”
“You can. You will. And you won’t argue. I’m not kidnapping you, Teddy. You called me, remember? I’m simply following through on this little rescue mission.”
“Oh, dear Lord, I can’t believe this is happening,” she whispers, her voice so low I know the words weren’t meant for me. Nevertheless, they fuel the sly smile that tugs at the corner of my mouth.
Seduction: a byproduct of simply being in my presence.
Tonight, fate is in my favor.
Tonight, I up the ante.
I scour my brain, anxiously trying to think of a list of reasons why Jude should take me to Geoff’s and abandon me; but all I can come up with are a list of reasons why going home with Jude is actually a really appealing idea. He’s right, I’m freezing. I’m soaked from head to toe, my thick, wet hair making it impossible for me to get warm. I pulled it up right after I called Jude from the coffee shop, afraid that I might look like a wet dog with my hair clinging to my face and my clothes. Now, it certainly won’t dry any time soon—but a hot shower? That would be heavenly.
Since I can’t deny what he’s offering, I don’t say anything at all. I pull his jacket around me tighter and try desperately not to get completely lost in his scent. It’s everywhere, and it’s frighteningly delicious. In an attempt to distract myself, I stare out the window, trying to pay attention to where he’s taking me. He drives past the gallery and then hangs a left, heading down Mountain Avenue.
Mountain Avenue is one of the most beautiful streets in all of Fort Collins. It’s lined with gorgeous old houses and huge trees that make the changing of the seasons something to look forward to. There’s even a trolley that runs down the wide median during the summer time. I’ve ridden it a couple times with Steven. He loves it.
When we near the end of the long stretch of road, Judah slows down and turns into the driveway of his brick-faced home. He pulls into the garage and parks next to a black Land Rover. Suddenly, I’m incredibly intimidated.
The man owns two cars and a house. What in the hell am I doing here?
“Come,” he says, pulling me from my thoughts.
I take a breath and then climb out of his car, following him to the door that leads into the house. It opens and I find myself in a little mud room. Though, by the looks of it, something tells me it never sees mud. His golf clubs are in the corner and he deposits the wet umbrella into his copper sink basin before leading me down a short hallway. It spills out underneath a metal staircase and I look up at it, fascinated that such a thing exists inside of his home. I glance to my left as he goes right and I spot his front door. I also notice, just beside the door, there’s a stairwell that leads to his basement next to what I assume is a coat closet. The floors in his entryway are a dark hardwood, and somehow I understand that it fits him to a T.
It might be rude, but my eyes are everywhere. As I follow after him down the wide hallway, I see that he has an office to my left. It’s closed behind a set of glass-paned French doors, but I can tell it’s very sleek, masculine, and spacious. It makes me wonder how many hours of work he clocks from home. An office like that is surly not just for show.
I’m so distracted by my curiosity, I almost miss it when he walks into the room across the hall. I follow him only until I reach the threshold, and then I stop abruptly—completely certain that he’s just brought me to his bedroom.
It’s dark. The walls and the ceiling are painted in a rusty grey—but it’s not just flat paint, it’s textured somehow, making it look rugged. His bed is in the middle of the room, covered in a hunter-green duvet and a small assortment of pillows—muted grey, orange, and cream colored. His headboard looks like a partition, meant to divide the room. It’s made of wood, stretching out on either side of his mattress; his nightstands—or, rather, night-tables are attached, hovering with no feet beneath them.
I peek further inside and I see that on the other side of the door, stretching along the wall, there’s a television mounted next to a huge bookshelf filled with books. And on the opposite side of the room, the wall is really just a huge window that looks out into his backyard. Even with the darkness of the storm, I can make out his fence-line of trees, which somehow adds to the décor of his room.
I take a step forward, wondering where he went. When I don’t see him, I take another hesitant step. I’m startled when he comes from around the corner—startled and curious as to where, exactly, he came from.
“I’m not a small man, in any way, shape, or form, but these are dry,” he says, handing me a couple pieces of folded clothing. “The bathroom is there.” He points to the door-less entry on the far side of the room, near the glass wall.
My mouth opens and closes as I try to find my words. “Uh—you-you want me to use your shower? I mean—you don’t have a guest room or something?”
“No,” he says with a half smile that makes my knees weak. “I have a shower in the basement, but no guest room. The one in here is bigger, so I insist,” he tells me, nodding in its direction.
I frown at him, still confused. Given what I’ve seen of his house so far, his answer doesn’t make sense to me. “How do you not have a guest room?”
“Simple. When I redesigned this house, I didn’t include one in the floorplan. It’s not a need that I have.”
I arch an eyebrow at him. “You never have overnight guests?”
He chuckles, making my stomach tingle. “When I do, they have no objections to sharing my bed.”
When my cheeks burn hot in an instant, I immediately regret the question. I hug his clothes to my chest and grimace, wishing I had just listened to him in the first place and headed straight for his shower.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes,” I say with a sigh, not even bothering to dance around the answer. I’m relieved for the change in conversation.
He nods before he begins to walk around me. “When you’re finished, I’ll be upstairs. Take your time.”
I pause for a moment and then turn to thank him, but he’s already gone. My cold, wet dress reminds me how desperately I want a shower, so I set down my purse and lay his jacket across the bed before I make my way to his bathroom. I gasp when I turn on the light.
The floors are tiled, the stone an assortment of various shaped squares and colors—dark browns and shades of grey. The cabinets are made of weathered wood, and wood paneling covers the walls, about three-quarters of the length up—the top portion painted a dark beige. At first, I don’t even see the toilet, but when I see a cracked door on the far left side of the room, I figure that must be it. I also notice a built in shelf, which houses a bunch of linens and towels. Hesitantly, I make my way over and grab one. It’s cream colored, extremely fluffy and heavy, and I can’t help but bring it to my face. It feels amazing and smells even better.
I set all of my things on the generous amount of counter space he has at his sink, and then begin to peel away my clothes. He has two hooks on the wall with a towel on each, and I move one towel over the other and hang up my clothing. My bra and underwear are just as wet as everything else, and I decide I won’t put them on underneath Judah’s clothing. My guess i
s, my boobs are small enough that he’ll never notice underneath the t-shirt he offered me. If all else fails, I have my hair.
He wasn’t lying about his shower. It’s gigantic. It’s also gorgeous. The floors are made of stone, and the walls of brick—the colors matching his tiled floor. There are two shower heads. Two. One on either side of the shower. For a moment, I wonder if he uses the same side every day, or if he switches it up. Then I wonder if he frequents this shower with his overnight guests. I shove that last thought aside as I step inside. There’s no door or curtain, which makes me a little weary, but I think I can trust that he won’t walk in here. I think.
I do as he says and take my time, letting the hot water warm me up. I hesitate to use any of his products, but then I decide that if I don’t wash and condition my hair, it’ll hate me when it dries. By the time I get out, I’ve filled the entire bathroom with steam, and the mirror over the sink is all fogged up. I dry off and then wrap my hair in his towel before slipping into his t-shirt and the pair of gym shorts he let me borrow. I have to pull the drawstring as tight as it will go and roll the top over itself a couple times. The fabric still falls to my knees.
I dry my hair as best as I can with the towel before I scrunch my waves. There isn’t much hope for it at this point, but I have to at least try to look somewhat presentable. When I’m finished, I drop the towel into his hamper and then re-enter his bedroom. I know that I should head upstairs, like he told me to, but now that I’ve been inside of his huge bathroom, I’m curious to know what awaits down the little hallway he appeared from before. Feeling brazen, I sneak my way through the second opening in the wall and walk right into his closet.
Oh. My. God.
The space lights up automatically as soon as I walk in. Each wall is built to house various forms of clothing. Two walls store his suits. They’re organized by color. Some of them hang in clear bags, and I’m guessing—based on their colors—that they are suits he doesn’t wear during the summer. I take a step further into the room and see one wall is dedicated to his more casual items. He has a ton of khakis in a few different colors hung below an array of polo shirts and button-downs. Then, on the last wall, is his collection of shoes. I gape at them, at a loss for words at the fact that he owns more shoes than Geoffrey—and Geoffrey owns an impressive amount of shoes. More than Harper and me combined.
There’s an island of drawers in the middle of the room, and I wonder what’s inside. Looking down at the clothes that I’m wearing, I assume the drawers hold the items he stores folded. I spin around twice, taking it all in. Then it clicks, and I understand why the man doesn’t have a guest room. This is his guest room. I could live in here. And I don’t just mean that in the sense that it’s, literally, the size of my bedroom.
It’s beautiful. It’s sophisticated. It’s amazing. And it’s…Jude.
“I was beginning to think you’d drowned. But now I see you’re just lost.”
I gasp so loud I shriek as I whirl around and come face to face with the man whose closet I’ve so rudely intruded upon. I can feel it as my cheeks turn red, and I curse myself for putting myself in the position to be embarrassed in front of him. Again. He’s going to think I have some sort of condition. I swear, I’ve never met anyone who makes me blush this much.
I open my mouth to apologize, but the only words that come to mind are—“Your closet is—it’s—it’s incredible.”
He stares at me for a moment, clearly amused, before he says, “You just spent the last half an hour in my shower, and it’s my closet you love?”
“Sorry,” I murmur, finally finding my apology. “I shouldn’t have come in here.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, offering me his hand. “Come. Dinner is almost ready.”
My heart beats wildly as I even consider placing my hand in his; but in light of my horrible manners, I feel as though I owe him. I slide my palm against his and it takes everything in me not to pull away. His touch sends an electric current throughout my entire body. It’s overwhelming. Too overwhelming, but I don’t let go. When he looks down at our joined hands, and then into my eyes, I wonder if he feels the same thing—but he doesn’t say a word before he leads me out of the closet, out of his bedroom, and up the cool metal stairs.
When we reach the landing of his second level, I stop dead in my tracks. Every time I enter a room, I’m more blown away than I was when I entered the last.
The entire second level of his house is one, big open space. The walls are made of brick, robbing the room of any chance at brightness. But the wall-to-wall windows that take up the back side of the room probably provide a ton of sunlight during the day.
The space, while one big room, is more like three in one. He’s got two brown leather sofas that straddle a wooden-plank-topped coffee table. My lips twitch with a small smile as I think—a lot of trees were killed for the making of his décor. He’s also got two over-stuffed tan chairs that take up another side of the table. Then, behind the living room, just in front of the large windows, is a long dining room table, complete with six chairs. It all feels so warm and inviting, and I wonder how a bachelor could reside in such a place all by himself.
Over the dining room table, I spot the one and only thing that could possibly speak of his single status. Up the set of spiral, metal stairs on the far left side of the room, there’s a little loft. It appears to hold a pool table and a couple stools.
“The original house came with an attic,” he explains, hinting that he’s been watching my eyes as they dance around the room. “I took it out. I appreciate high ceilings.”
I hear him, but I don’t acknowledge him, still completely blown away and absolutely speechless. There’s no television in sight. And while I never pegged him as a man who hung posters, I’m impressed with the art he has hanging about the room.
“Teddy?” he questions, allowing my fingers to slip away from his.
I shake my head, trying to gain control of myself. I look up at him, his grey eyes trained on me, and in this moment, I understand that there is so much more to him than what meets the eye. He harbors brilliance in that mind of his—and it’s breathtaking.
“You’re like…you’re like really good at what you do, aren’t you? I mean—” I glance around the room once more before a laugh forces its way from my chest. “You’re like a badass in your field.”
“Yes,” he states assuredly and without pause.
He reaches up and rubs his chin before he tucks his hands into his pant pockets. Now that I’m not freezing cold and freaking out about being in his house, I notice that his jaw is covered in a five o’clock shadow. It’s too short to be scruff, cluing me in to the fact that he’s earned that shadow throughout the day, and it’s sexy as hell. I also realize that he’s not wearing what he was when he picked me up. Now he’s in a pair of navy khakis and a checkered button-down, the sleeves rolled to his elbows and his collar undone. That must mean that he came back to the room to change while I was in the shower.
He looks far more put together than me, and I have to pull my eyes away from his as I question, once again—What in the hell am I doing here?
My stomach growls, filling the silence between us, and I clap my hands over my stomach, as if the act will shut the organ up.
“I think that’s our cue. Come on.”
I look up just as he’s making his way across the room, and I follow behind him. His kitchen is to the right of the dining room. There’s an island with four stools tucked beneath it and I invite myself to take a seat while he busies himself at the stove. My eyes sweep the space, of course, and I find it just as mesmerizing as the rest of his house. My kitchen could fit in here at least three times, and the copper farmhouse sink he has makes me a little jealous. And don’t even get me started on his assortment of coffee makers. He has a Keurig, an espresso machine, and a French press.
I might be falling in love.
With his kitchen, of course.
“So, what are you making? It
smells good.”
“Lemon chicken and asparagus stir-fry,” I tell her, opening the cabinet to pull out two plates. “Would you like rice?”
“Please,” she murmurs.
As I plate our food, I think about how this will be the first time I’ve made a woman dinner since I moved to Fort Collins. It’s certainly not something that I do on a regular basis, but I have done it a time or two in my day. It’s a tactic best reserved for those conquests that like to play hard to get. Though, something tells me it’ll take a lot more than stir-fry to win Teddy over.
Once I’ve plated our food, I turn to face her. I originally planned on dining at the table, but she looks quite alluring right where she is. She’s drowning in my clothes, my t-shirt draping off the side of her bare shoulder, exposing her milky white skin and a smattering of freckles. With her hair wild and wet, her skin still glowing from her long shower, she looks almost freshly fucked—and just looking at her makes me hungry for something far more satisfying than chicken.
I clear my throat, ignore my semi-hard cock, and place her plate in front of her—setting mine just beside hers.
“Something to drink? I’ve got wine. However, I wasn’t planning on your visit, so it’s of the darker variety.”
“Um,” she hums, rearranging herself in her seat. She brings her feet up to sit cross-legged and sweeps her hair behind her ears nervously. “Do you have a zin? Or a malbec?”
“I’m certain I do,” I assure her, heading toward my pantry. It only takes me a moment to find what I’m looking for. After opening the zinfandel, I pour two glasses and then occupy the seat beside her. “Bon appetite.”
“You really didn’t have to go through all of this trouble,” she tells me before taking her first bite.
I ignore her ridiculous insinuation. She called me, completely stranded, with the intention of asking me to leave her, completely stranded, someplace else. Even if she wasn’t incredibly irresistible, I was brought up far better than that.
“How is it?” I ask, nodding to her second fork-full.