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“I meant the… you get it.”
“I’m not the kind of woman you want. We know that. Do you have to keep on about it?”
No one’s been going on about it. At least not in the way she means. “I just thought it might be nicer to be in a big bed.”
“Be my guest.”
The sarcasm is clear and I ignore it, sliding in closer to her, the scent of gardenias is a lingering, subtle gift to the air if I breathe close enough to her. It makes me want to move in closer, but I don’t.
“Thanks.”
Deep down, I didn’t come in here just because the thought of her bed over the sofa is more enticing. It is. It’s a bed. It contains space and a warm body and one I know I can fall asleep next to.
But I didn’t stand, dithering for the first time in my life, outside her door like a teenager for that. Even if I’d wanted to just go to sleep in the same bed as a woman, I’d go in. I can pick up when and if I’m wanted, and I knew she wouldn’t kick me out.
Actually…
No. I didn’t know that.
I knew she’d get it. That it wasn’t a big seduction event, or me simply taking what I want, when I want.
I simply didn’t know if she’d tell me to go. And I’d have gone. Of course I would have. Climbing in bed with her was already a line crossed. I’m just not sure what that line is.
But I know why I did it.
I like being around her. And there was a loneliness I couldn’t shake out in the living room, something I didn’t know existed. Being here, with her, it’s gone. This feels right.
Because she’s Elliot.
A friend, I think. A female friend.
It’s a new experience so I’m still finding my way, and there’s so much about her that’s unexpectedly delicious, like the way I can tease and she flares up beautifully.
She shifts beneath the covers and her soft cotton-covered leg brushes mine.
“That,” she says, “was sarcasm.”
“I know.” I pick up a lock of her hair from her haphazard ponytail, fighting the urge to release the soft and silky mass. In the light of the TV, there are strands of gold and caramel amongst the red. “But you’re not going to kick me out.”
“I should.”
“You won’t.”
“No, I won’t. As long as you behave, which we both know you will.”
“Because,” I say, “I’m a gentleman.”
“Do not make me laugh.”
But I smile as I ease her into my arms, just so we’re more comfortable. For a moment she goes stiff then she makes a small sound that does very untoward things to my libido and she softens, melting into me.
She feels good. I almost tell her she made that weird, empty loneliness go away, but once said I can’t take the words back. Elliot might laugh. I know others would. Big, bad Ryder Sinclair getting in bed with a woman to chase the ghost of loneliness away. Yeah, they would all laugh.
Not at who I’m with, not at all. With her smoky voice and intriguing mouth and Rita Hayworth hair, not to mention that sharp wit and brain, I’m shocked men aren’t fighting to be where I am. No, they’d laugh because of how pathetic I’d sound.
“So the Golden Girls, huh?”
“Are we talking now?”
