He paused. Then he answered, “A lot, no. Sometimes, yeah.”
Without my mind willing my body to do it, I pulled on his arm as Buster daintily hopped off my lap. I was wearing a shelf bra camisole and undies. I’d replaced these after cleaning up in the bathroom after we’d made love before going to sleep.
When I got to my knees in front of him, my other hand flattened on his abs as my hand around his wrist tugged harder to bring him down to me. My hand at his abs slid up his chest to curl around his neck when he bent at the waist to get close. My hold at his wrist disengaged when both his arms wrapped around me.
I tilted my head back and his face got close.
“Please be careful, honey,” I whispered and before he could answer my arms tightened around his neck, I flattened by body against his and I kissed him hard.
He crushed me to him with one arm, the other hand going into my hair, fisting and holding my mouth to his far longer than I’d intended.
He broke the kiss but didn’t let me go nor did his mouth move very far away.
“I’ll take care of Buster,” I promised.
“Thanks, Ace,” he murmured. “Don’t get into trouble when I’m gone,” he warned.
“I’m a good girl,” I reminded him.
When his mouth hit mine I could tell it was smiling.
“Yeah,” he said and that one word also held his smile.
Then his fist in my hair tipped my head down, he kissed the hair at the top, let me go and he was gone.
Chapter Sixteen
Once We Were Brothers
It was three days after Tate left to hunt a possibly armed, definitely dangerous fugitive.
Which was five days after the incident with Wood in Tate’s living room.
It was mid-morning and I was sitting out on his deck drinking coffee, my feet up on a lower railing, taking a break from what had become an ongoing three day job of doing laundry and cleaning Tate’s house.
I’d struggled with this decision. Cleaning his house was an intimacy he had not invited. Then again, he’d asked me to stay in it and I could (somewhat) ignore the state of it when Tate was there and most of the time we were eating or having sex. I couldn’t ignore the state of it when I was staying there.
I was contemplating the trees that surrounded the house as my mind considered the fact that I might have taken things a bit too far. I hadn’t only picked up his bedroom, done his laundry and thoroughly cleaned out his kitchen including a complete clear out and wipe down of the fridge and a full scouring of his baked on, burnt on oven that clearly hadn’t been cleaned since the dawn of time. I’d also vacuumed and dusted the entire house, cleaned all the bathrooms, carried his boots in the mudroom to the closet in his bedroom, tidied his coats in the mudroom, organized his clothes in the walk-in closet and cleared the dining room table, stacking his mail (without looking too much at it) on the kitchen counter (magazine piles, opened mail piles, unopened mail piles).
I’d also stripped his bed and noticed his sheets were old and, if not threadbare, they were getting there.
There were also no other sheets to replace them that I could find but I didn’t look hard. The two bedrooms upstairs had their doors closed and I kept them like that. I found, on the ground level, the backstairs led into a big open space with a bunch of weight equipment in it and then there was a hall off which there were three rooms and a bathroom. The bathroom door was open (so I cleaned it) and another room was open. This was obviously Tate’s office with desk, computer, printer, fax machine, three filing cabinets and a variety of files and paperwork (not in the filing cabinets) that were not only unorganized but looked in danger of forming a paper avalanche. I didn’t tidy his office because he probably knew where everything was and I didn’t know what anything was so I couldn’t organize it properly not knowing. The other two doors downstairs were not opened.
I didn’t open the unopened doors because I didn’t want him to think I was snooping. Though I found it slightly odd, with the upstairs and the down, that Tate Jackson had such a huge house. Essentially six bedrooms, three full baths, living room, dining room, family room. It was long and it was also large. Too large for one man and a dainty cat.
Unable to find sheets, I called Wendy, swung by to pick her up and we headed to the mall in order to buy some.
This was where I thought that perhaps I was stepping over the line.
Because I didn’t only buy sheets, I bought Indian cotton, high thread count sheets and because Tate’s comforter had seen better days, I bought a down one, a comforter cover, six new down pillows and shams.
I thought nothing of this until the clerk returned my credit card and Wendy giggled. Her giggle started slow and then gained in volume and hilarity.
Finally she shouted, “Love this!”
I turned to her. “Love what?”
“You and Tate buying sheets together.” Then she laughed outright and grabbed me, giving me a big hug.
I hugged her back and looked over her shoulder at the clerk who was smiling at me like she knew what was going on. I didn’t smile at her because I didn’t.
“Tate and I aren’t buying sheets together,” I told Wendy, she let me go and leaned back.
“You so are!”
I looked around to see if Tate was hiding somewhere and about to saunter out and surprise me. When I saw no Tate, I looked back at Wendy.
“It’s just that he needs new sheets. His are old and he only has one set,” I explained.
“He need a new comforter?” she returned.
“Yes, that’s old too.”
“A comforter cover?” she went on.
“You have a down comforter, Wendy, you have to have a cover,” I explained patiently.
“Shams?” she asked.
Hmm. I could see her point on the shams. Tate wasn’t exactly a man who needed two extra pillows which were only there to sport decorative shams.
I bit my lip and looked at the huge plastic bags holding my purchases.
“And you’re gonna sleep on those sheets,” she reminded me. “You already are! And he isn’t even home!”
“Um…” I mumbled.
“Love this!” Wendy shouted again then turned to clerk and shared, “She’s got a new man, he’s a good man and he’s hot, he’s totally into her and they’ve known each other, like, two months and they’re already playing house!”
“We’re not playing house,” I whispered.
“You so are,” Wendy didn’t whisper, she spoke so loud other people were staring (and smiling).