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Somehow, in the midst of this crazy day, Martin has created a tiny oasis of peace and calm. And he brought snacks?
Watching him fuss over my hens does something to me. Something unspeakable.
It’s like my heart and my ovaries have simultaneous orgasms. Like, at the same instant, they both jump up and down, waving to get my attention, screaming at me, This man! This one right here! He’s the one! The whole package! Grab him! Now! Hold on tight!
That’s the moment, right then, when it hits me.
I am in serious trouble here.
This man … this guy who is gruff and grumpy and barely seems to know how to smile, has been kinder to me than anyone else has in a long time. I’m about one kind gesture away from falling in love with him.
Which sucks … because I’m pretty sure he sees me as some sort of stray.
Except then he stops messing with the pillows and looks over at me. At some point while I was in the shower, he changed from his jeans into gray sweatpants and a dry henley, almost identical to the one he was wearing earlier that got damp in the rain.
I’m standing there in his pajama bottoms and oversized white t-shirt.
Well, it’s oversized on me. I’m sure it fits him like a glove.
Both the t-shirt and bottoms are impossibly soft, the way expensive things are once they’re well-worn and well-loved. I can’t explain why, but there’s something erotic about wearing his clothes, about knowing that he is the last person whose skin touched this fabric.
But you know what’s even more erotic? The way he looks at me. His gaze eats me up, taking in every detail, and I’m pretty sure he can tell I’m not wearing a bra. And then, as if on command, my nipples harden.
God, my tits are such attention whores.
Martin picks up a pair of tumblers from the snack tray and hands one to me. “I made you another gin and tonic.”
I take the glass from him. There’s a sprig of mint and a perfect loop of lemon peel. I take a sip and it’s crisp and delicate, exquisite in a way that makes me want to savor it.
Martin on the other hand, downs his in one long gulp without tearing his eyes away from me.
“You should sit.” He does so himself and pours himself another drink. “We could be here a while.”
“Can I turn down the lights? The hens will settle down if they think it’s dusk.”
“Good idea.”
Before I can even look for a light switch, Martin has his phone out and is using an app to adjust the lighting. Almost as soon as the lights dim, their clucking noises morph into peaceful rummaging and feather ruffling noises.
Before I even have the chance to wonder what I’m going to talk about with Martin, he broaches my favorite subject. “Tell me about your therapy chickens.”
One of the birds makes a soft chirping noise, so I weave my fingers through a gap in the side of the pet pen and she shuffles over to nuzzle me. Between the low lighting and mesh of the pen, I can’t quite tell which of the birds it is.
“What do you want to know?”
“Why therapy chickens? Why not dogs or cats?”
I slant him a suspicious look. “You can’t really want to hear me talk about my therapy chickens.”
He just meets my gaze and cocks an eyebrow. “Why not?”
“You obviously think my therapy chickens are ridiculous.”
“Do I?” he asks, with that familiar smirk of his. “Obviously?”
Funny how that smirk that used to seem almost cruel now seems fond and teasing.
I roll my eyes. “Yes. Everyone thinks they’re ridiculous. Plus, I handed you an egg the first time we met. So you have even more reasons to think my therapy chickens are ridiculous.”
