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She smiled, more than willing to take the bait. “Where would I start?” Stepping back, she gave me a sweeping survey. “Let’s see. I could write a thesis on all the ways it should be deemed cruel and unusual punishment to be forced to stand here looking at you in nothing more than a towel. Torture to the highestdegree. However—to describe you, I think I’d start with the color of your hair.”
I rolled my eyes. “Stick with the towel. I hate the color of my hair. Boring brown. Mousy brown. Unremarkable brown.”
“Winter chestnuts brown. Evergreens in autumn brown. Stradivarius brown.”
I forced a sip of scalding coffee to hide my swallow. I’d not been expecting that from her.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had someone compare me to a violin before,” I teased in my attempt to keep it light.
“I’m surprised,” she returned, “strung as tight as you are.”
I laughed. “Hey!I resemble that remark.”
Whatever response she had was interrupted by a knock at my door.
Shit.
“Kam?” a voice called through my mailslot.
I breathed a sigh of relief, trying to ease my automatic hackles. It was just Sophie.
“A friend,” I held a finger to my lips, motioning for Dillon to give me a second.
“Hey!” I cracked the door.
“Oh, hey.” Sophie stood expectant on my doorstep. “I tried to call you, but your phone went straight to voicemail.”
“Sorry, I think it’s dead.”
“I’m on my way to the Fairfax Farmers Market. Want to go?”
“Oh, uh, thanks—not today.” I shifted my hold on the towel. “I’ve got a lot of work.”
I could see her eyes sweep past my security chain, over my shoulder, to where Dillon’s backpack was still on the couch. “Oh.Oh.” She took a step back, embarrassed, but then issued me a secret smile. “Is it…?” she lipped silently.
I knew what she was asking. I nodded the affirmative.
“Okay,” she projected loudly, turning on her best stage voice, “have a good morning. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your responsibilities.” She laughed. “You get right to that. Call me later?”
“Mhm.”
“Toodles, then.” And she was gone.
I relocked the door. “Thank God.”
“Expecting more boys with mistletoe?” Dillon asked. She’d pulled out a chair at my dining room table, where she was now sipping from her 7-Eleven cup.
“Worse—I thought it might be someone from work.”
“Well, in that case, it would have been into the closet or under the bed—we certainly wouldn’t want the powers-that-be finding their newly-hired Goody Two-Shoes keeping the wrong company.”
My eyes snapped to her. “You’re wrong if you think that’s how I feel.” I searched her face, trying to decipher her comment. It wasn’t something we’d talked about. We’d yet to fully acknowledge anus, let alone how we wanted to proceed. But the simple fact that she’d flown from the UK to California twice in less than ten days was a pretty good indicator she wanted to pursue this as much as I did. So I skipped to the latter. “If we decide to keep this quiet, I’m fine with that. But it’s important to me that you know I’m not afraid to own it in the open, either. That doesn’t scare me.”
I knew it was easy to say that now, standing in the privacy of my apartment, without the entire world prying into the details of my personal life. But I did mean it. If we were going to do this, I was willing to do this. Openly. Unashamedly. However she wanted. My biggest concern was that we did whatever was best for her, but I wasn’t certain how to phrase that.
“I’d expect nothing less from the girl voted most likely to lead a protest,” she smiled, but the humor behind the wordswas forced. I knew the subject made her uncomfortable, and I regretted bringing it up. After what happened with Kelsey…
I crossed the floor, stopping in front of her to run a hand through her damp hair. “For now, however, the less I have to share you with the world, the better. If that works for you?”
