Page 152

Not because he's messy.

But maybe because he'd expect to climb right back into it later.

The thought sends another blush racing across my face.

I straighten the sheets anyway.

Smooth the comforter.

Fluff the pillows.

Then I notice the neatly folded stack waiting on the dresser.

My clothes.

I blink.

Did he?

Yes, he did.

Oh my God.

He washed them.

My bar t-shirt.

My jeans.

Even my panties and bra.

Everything smells clean again.

Beside them sits one of his faded navy T-shirts.

A silent invitation.

Or maybe just practicality.

Either way, I can't stop smiling.

I slip into my underwear and bra before pulling on my freshly washed jeans.

Then I reach for his shirt instead of mine.

It hangs loosely over my curves.

Comfortable.

Soft.

It feels perfect.

Right.

Better than my work shirt somehow.

I catch myself smiling in the mirror again.