Page 50 of Coming Up Roses
“Yeah. I’ll sleep on the other.”
Oh. I laugh and it comes out more nervously than I wasexpecting. “I don’t sleep on a side. I tend to sleep right in the middle.”
I’m so fucking smooth. Way to remind her I’ve never shared a bed with anyone. Well, there’s been the occasional sleeping beside Olivia or Katie over the years. But that doesn’t count and we never discussed what side we sleep on.
“Oh, well, can I sleep on that side?” Abi asks and points to the side furthest from the small window.
“Yeah, of course. Help yourself. Same with whatever foods in the pantry or fridge if you want something. I’ll be back soon.” Just after I finish trying to drown myself in the shower.
I spend way too long standing under the shower spray. I need to get to sleep, it’s already way too late, but I can’t make myself move. Not until the hot water runs out anyway. I towel off and pull on a pair of shorts. I wouldn’t normally wear anything but underwear to sleep in. But I’m not doing that with Abi next to me.
By the time I slip into the bedroom, Abi is curled into a tight ball on her side of the bed and doesn’t stir when I slide in next to her. I flick off the bedside lamp and settle in, willing sleep to come fast.
It doesn’t. It doesn’t come at all.
26
ABI
Flynn cannot stop moving.From the moment he slipped silently into bed beside me, he’s been tossing and turning every thirty seconds. I can feel his restless heat across the bed—it’s not a big one—and I want to roll over, reach out and smooth a hand down his spine. But I don’t. Instead I lie still, faking sleep.
I pretended I was already asleep when he came to bed, because I feel like I’ve made him uncomfortable enough just by being here, let alone being in his bed.
I shouldn’t have taken him up on his offer. I should have argued at his insistence that I couldn’t drive home. Sure it would mean I would have gotten home and to bed a lot later than I had. Or I should have toughened up and admitted to Olivia what happened with the flowers. But turning up at her house in the middle of the night to confess, then beg for a bed, was too horrifying a thought to even contemplate. Way to show my boss I’ve got my shit together.
So I chose Flynn’s other offer. His place.
It’s kind of charming, despite clearly being incredibly old and a bit run down. You can tell they’ve tried to maintain it as much as possible, but there’s only so much you can do with a building this old.
Flynn clearly isn’t an interior decorator. His only contributions to the space are a collection of photos hung on the wall, including several of a man who looks exactly like Flynn and a stunning blonde woman. His parents, without a doubt. I didn’t linger looking at the pictures, but my eyes did land on one of that gorgeous couple and two boys. The blond boy was slightly bigger than the other, taller and broader though still too young to be anything but a gangly teenager, and had a stern expression on his small face, his brow furrowed. The other boy had the opposite expression, a huge smile spread across his face under a tangle of wild red hair. Flynn, probably somewhere around age twelve. His parents were looking at each other in the photo, sharing a smile and the love between them was obvious, even from my quick glance.
Flynn lets out a low growling sound and a moment later the bed shifts as his feet touch the floor. He pads quietly from the room, leaving the bed feeling huge, empty and cold.
I lie still for several long moments, but Flynn doesn’t return. I can’t hear him in the bathroom. I can’t hear him moving around at all.
Another moment passes and ignoring my better judgement, I slip out of bed and go searching for him.
In a home with three rooms, he isn’t hard to find. I don’t even have to go past the bedroomdoor.
Flynn is standing at the kitchen bench, hands braced on the edge, staring out the window to what I assume would be the hills beyond if it was daylight.
The glow of the moon through the window on the opposite side of the room traces his shoulders in soft light. He’s only wearing a pair of loose shorts that sit deliciously low on his hips. So low I can make out the twin dips in his lower back. The long, lean muscles in his back flex and shift as his grip tightens on the bench top. He lets out a low groan.
“Flynn?” I whisper.
He startles and whirls around. “Shit,” he says breathlessly.
“Sorry. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he mutters and turns back to the window.
“That’s my line,” I say and he huffs out a tiny laugh. “What are you doing?”
“I don’t know.” His voice is so low I barely hear him. He sighs heavily and I try not to be too distracted by his back muscles flexing again. He’s clearly got something on his mind and I’m here ogling him. He spins around again, crossing his arms over his chest and again, my gaze lingers on long, lean muscles … everywhere. “That’s the problem, Rosie. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”
I mirror his pose, folding my arms and leaning against the doorframe. There’s a few metres between us, plus this simmering attraction that flares hotter as his eyes wander down my body, snagging on the hem of the t-shirt of his that I’m wearing. The space feels like miles, and also no distance at all.
The shirt smells like him, like grass and sunshine and a tingeof sea salt, and the fabric is so soft and worn I never want to take it off.
