I yanked a brush through my hair once I let it down and then opened the closet door to check myself out in the mirror hanging on the inside. Giving myself a quick cursory glance, I thought I looked comfortable. Okay even. My hair fell to my breasts, and due to twisting it while still wet, it had messy waves in it. The outfit was laid-back, but flattering. Not like I was trying too hard or expecting anything. That was good. I think.
What was about to happen could end in so many different ways that I wondered if my parents ever had to worry about the many stages of possibly dating when they met. Tonight, Reece and I could hook up and it could just be a one-night stand. Or it could turn into the casual booty call—the one that only took place at three or four in the morning. But that could also progress into the friends-with-benefits stage or the “I think we’re dating, because we’re going out and doing things that don’t always involve sex but nothing has been established” stage. From there, we could end up dating or going our separate ways. We could end up married with babies or we could just fade apart from one another. I doubted we’d be friends with benefits, because Reece knew my family and I knew his, so that could just get awkward.
There were so many different ways this could end that I was starting to stress myself out.
I wasn’t going to overthink any of this.
Sticking my tongue out at my reflection, I stepped back and closed the closet door. Taking off my glasses, I placed them on the bedside table and then headed out of the bedroom, leaving the door ajar just in case we needed to make it back to the bedroom with a quickness.
I flushed, because I’d totally do him on the couch, floor, kitchen counter—wherever. A bed was not necessary.
I was going to be down for whatever happened tonight.
Reece was sitting on the couch, long legs stretched out in front of him, feet kicked up on the coffee table. The TV was on, volume down. For a moment, all I could do was stare at him as my stomach fluttered madly and dangerously, because I could . . . I could get used to seeing him sitting on my couch, waiting for me to get off work. Me waiting for him. Preferably naked.
“Um.” He looked up, brows raised. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
I stiffened. “What?”
A slow grin crossed his face. “Your toilet seat lid was up.”
“What?” I repeated.
“When I went into your bathroom, the toilet seat was up. I was wondering if there was something you weren’t telling me. Like if you were trying a new method or something,” he teased.
What in the world? The only time I’d ever accidentally left the toilet seat up was when I cleaned it. My mind raced to find a plausible explanation to how the seat lifted up by itself. Poltergeist. It was official. The Victorian was built on an old Indian burial ground. We all were screwed.
Could I call Ghost Hunters? Or The Dead Files people?
“Sit with me?” he asked, stretching his arm along the back of the couch.
Reece had easily dismissed the toilet-seat thing, and I almost blurted out my Haunting in Plymouth Meeting suspicion, but decided against sounding like a lunatic for the time being. I’d prefer to talk to my mom or Katie about that. He probably wouldn’t believe me, and think I was being kooky Roxy.
Making my way over to him, I sat down with what I considered was appropriate space between us. When I pulled my legs up and crossed them, there was at least an inch. Plus, if I leaned back, it would be against his arm.
Why was I even thinking about this?
“What are you watching?” I asked, picking at the hem of my pants.
One shoulder rose in a shrug. “Looks like an infomercial for music of the eighties. Thinking about buying it.”
I snorted. “I don’t even own a CD player.”
He sent me a sideways glance. “You don’t own a DVD player either.”
When I’d been in his apartment, he’d had an impressive collection of DVDs. Not that I got a chance to scope them out, but I bet he had every movie from the last two decades. “Why would I, when I have On Demand?”
Shaking his head, he picked up his glass. “You don’t have a DVD collection and you still got your momma making tea for you. What am I doing here?”
“Whatever!” I smacked his thigh—his extremely hard thigh. Wow. My fingers tingled when I drew my hand back. “How do you know I didn’t make that tea?”
“It tastes just like your mom’s tea,” he countered, blue eyes twinkling. “Plus, the last I remember, your sweet tea tastes like watered-down engine fuel.”
A laugh burst out of me. “It does not.”
He arched a brow.
“Okay. Fine. The ratio of tea to sugar always throws me off.”
Reece chuckled. “You know, I was being serious about learning how to shoot a gun earlier. It’s just a smart thing to do.”
“I don’t know. Guns . . . I don’t have a problem with them, but they scare me,” I admitted. “It’s having the power to end a life in your hands. All you have to do is pull a trigger.” I shook my head. “That’s just . . . that’s just too much power.”
“Babe, you damn well know a rock in the hands of the wrong person can change lives, end them even. A gun is no different.”
Unsettled, I had to admit that he was right. But guns were also a part of his life and they weren’t a part of mine. Growing up, Dad had hunting rifles, but I rarely ever saw them. He kept them locked up, and never once did it cross my mind to get one for myself.