Chapter Twenty-Six
Griffin
The guest room Sierra takes me to after dinner faces the master bedroom. The only thing separating us is the hall. And the doors, of course.
It makes sense. If Todd decides to break into the place, I’ll be right here. I don’t think he’s quite that deranged, but then, I didn’t think he had it in him to show up at Sierra’s place drunk, so anything’s possible.
“This is the biggest room, other than mine,” she says, gesturing me in. “You have your own bathroom. It has a tub and a separate shower stall. Fully stocked with body wash and shampoo. I can give you conditioner if you need it. Towels are in there, too. If you need anything else, let me know. You can explore the rest of the house later. There isn’t much except for three rooms on this floor, downstairs, which you already saw, and the basement which you can look at tomorrow. Mi casa es su casa and all that.”
“Okay.” I stop at the sight of the bed. It’s king-size, which is fine, but… “Pink sheets?”
She looks at them. “Fuchsia.”
“Pink.”
“No. They’re fuchsia. Very different. And brand new. Nobody’s ever slept on the bed or the sheets,” she adds, like somehow that makes it better.
It doesn’t. And for some reason, this room, too, smells like apple.
“Did you spray the place with air freshener?” I ask, breathing shallowly. I’m going to become positively Pavlovian over this damn scent.
She frowns. “I don’t use air freshener. Why? Are you allergic to something in the room? Are you having a reaction?”
She sounds almost too eager as she asks. Does she want me to keel over?
It is possible, I decide. A woman this chirpy and happy must have a dark side nobody knows about to counterbalance all that brightness.
“I have some antihistamine,” she offers, looking up at me helpfully.
Like a puppy waiting to be praised. And loved.
My heart feels weird. Fuck. Me. I better not be having a heart attack in a house that smells like apple and a woman who’s driving me crazy with her smile.
“I’m not allergic,” I say, before she decides to order an EpiPen over the Internet. “I just thought the place smells…” Like you. Hot. Sexy. Fresh. Makes me horny. “Funky,” I say, blurting out the first antonym that snaps into my head for what I’ve been thinking.
She looks horrified. “Funky?” She walks around, sniffing. Finally, she stops at the foot of the bed. “I don’t smell anything except fabric softener.”
“You’ve been here for too long. Your nose becomes numb to the scent.” I’d rather drink bleach than tell her I’m feeling horny over the infernal apple scent.
“You’ve been here for a while too. So how come you can smell it?”
“An exceptional nose,” I tell her. “If I were a dog, I would’ve been a bloodhound.”
“Hmm.” She looks skeptical. “Well, if the smell bothers you that much, you can open the windows. Actually, let’s just do that right now. Air the room out a little.” She pushes the curtains—which are in a shade in between purple and pink—aside and opens the windows. “There. That should do it. Now, do you need anything else? Other than an air freshener?”
“No.”
“At least it’s just funky, not skunky,” she jokes.
Is that supposed to make me feel better?
“Good night. And thanks for staying here.” She flashes a sweet smile, then leaves.
The second she closes the door behind her, the room feels empty. I exhale, trying to gain a logical perspective on the situation. My own bedroom is twice as large as this one. There’s no reason to feel so…alone.
I brush my teeth, change into a pair of boxers and slide under the sheets, clicking the bedside lamp off. I put my nose in the sheets and inhale. She must use apple-scented fabric softener, because I can still smell that damned fruit. Just like her shampoo.
At least nothing here smells like silicone dicks.