I slip into a pair of cotton shorts and an oversized T-shirt before reaching for my toothbrush. I may not be getting freaky with Ford, like Cassie suggested, but I wouldn’t discount a little kissing, even though that’s probably not the wisest decision either. But it’s not like I’m the poster child for good, solid decision-making skills.
After running a brush through my hair, I leave it down to dry and return to the living room. Ford is exactly where I left him, sitting on the couch with his bare feet up on the coffee table. His eyes roam my body, starting with my wet hair and slowly working their way down. They linger on my chest, no doubt noticing the way my nipples pebble against the soft material.
When our eyes finally meet, there’s hunger written in the darkness of his irises. He slowly gets up and takes long, methodical steps toward me. As he stops, his right hand comes up and cups my cheek before brushing wet strands of hair off my forehead. I lick my lips. “I know I’m casual, but I was afraid we’d fall asleep again like last night.”
“I want you comfortable, Shayne. This is your home, and you can trust me with you in it.” He slides his thumb over my bottom lip. “I would never hurt you.”
It’s hard to swallow over the thickness in my throat, so I just nod. “I know you wouldn’t.”
Those four little words. They seem simple enough yet mean everything. It means I trust him. Not only to be here, in my space, but with my deepest, darkest secrets. Funny thing is, they’re not even really secrets. Everyone knows about my past, about what I did. Ford could ask anyone in town and find out what he needs to know.
Or at least their version of the story.
But he hasn’t.
So, yes, I trust him. It’s a heady feeling to trust someone other than my aunt and uncle, cousins, and Jet. I’m still not quite ready to tell him what happened, but I do believe he’ll listen to me without the judgment I see reflected in everyone else’s eyes. I’m just not there yet.
“I’ll be right back. I’m going to get more comfortable too,” he says, heading for the bathroom. It’s the first time I notice him holding something in his hands.
I make myself busy in the kitchen, grabbing some chips and salsa from the cabinet, as well as two bottles of beer. If we drink, that pretty much ensures he’s staying here tonight.
With me.
The door opens as I turn around, and when he rejoins me in the living room, I stop in my tracks. My tongue falls out of my mouth. My eyes feel like they’re on fire, since I’m staring, wide-eyed and unable to blink. Ford is wearing a pair of green sweatpants that hang dangerously low on his hips, and a tight-fitting US Army tee.
I’ve never understood the obsession with sweatpants. Women everywhere freak out about a fit man in gray ones. Cassie practically drools on herself whenever she talks about a guy in college wearing them, but I’ve never seen the appeal.
Until now.
Ford in a pair of sweatpants might be the greatest vision I’ve ever witnessed. They leave little to the imagination—if you know what I mean—and fit so perfectly, entire romance novels could be written about the way he looks right now.
“You okay?” he asks, breaking through the fog in my brain and wearing a smirk.
“Oh, uh, yeah. Great. Perfect. You?”
He grins, taking a seat on the couch and kicking up his bare feet. “I’m good.”
“I brought snacks,” I rush out, dropping down on the couch beside him in a very unladylike plop.
“Perfect,” he replies, reaching for a chip and dipping it in the hot salsa. I wait to see if he’s going to freak out and chug water like I expect but am surprised when he chews and swallows without so much as a blink of spicy discomfort. “This is good.”
“Aunt Joan cans her own every summer with ingredients from the garden. She always makes me about a dozen jars of super spicy,” I tell him, dipping my own chip in the tomatoey goodness.
“So, what do you want to do tonight? I’d suggest a movie, but you see how well that turned out last night. Though, I’m not nearly as tired as I was then,” he says, dipping another chip.
“Well, how about we order some food. I’m getting hungry again,” I start, noting it’s several hours after my aunt had my uncle deliver a basket of fried chicken to the fishing hole. “And then we can play cards. Do you know how to play rummy?”
“Rummy?” he asks, sitting up straight, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “I’m the rummy king!”
I dramatically roll my eyes. “You mean like you were the fishing whisperer earlier?” I tease, jumping up and heading for the junk drawer, where I keep a deck of cards.