Page 11 of Naughty-ish

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Nick and I part ways when he tells me he has somewhere to be. I fumble through, “Of course,” and “Thank you,” before hanging my head and heading home.

After my shopping trip proves unproductive, I take the bath I wanted and soak for an hour, but my body feels more alive than relaxed. Just beneath my skin is this yearning sensation. A need for something . . . or rather someone.

I shouldn’t do it. It shouldn’t be a thing, but my fingers coast between my breasts and down my midsection. Fumbling through coarse hair, I curl over the mound and close my eyes when my fingertips find that sensitive nub. With two fingertips and a little bit of pressure, the fantasy begins.

Nick on his knees.

Nick between my thighs.

Nick—

The doorbell rings. And like I’ve been caught with my fingers in a Christmas cookie tin, I pull them back and sit upright in the tub, sloshing water around me.

Holding my breath, I wait for whomever it is, that I obviously cannot see, to leave my front stoop. I’m not expecting anyone, and I typically don’t open the door to strangers, especially when it’s only a solicitor or political promoter.

However, the doorbell rings again and then a heavy rap sounds loudly through the house. As I’ve been in the tub long enough and my little naughty Nick fantasy was a bust, I climb out and quickly dry off. I don’t have a robe, so I grab the oversized flannel shirt hanging on the back of the door and shove my arms into it, using it like a wintery wrap.

When another rap rattles the door, I rush down the stairs and peek through the transom window at the top, immediately recognizing the red cap. With a fierce tug, I open the barrier and clutch my flannel shirt.

“Nick?” I’m breathless from racing. “Is everything okay?”

His gaze roams over me. Taking in my hair which is tucked up in a messy bun on my head and my shirt which isn’t buttoned but wrapped around me by my arms crossing over my midsection to keep it closed. My legs are bare. I’m also not wearing any underwear and I’m praying all my bits are covered.

“Was I interrupting something?”

Yes! My little daydream about him but perhaps he read my thoughts through our homes and across the drive and came over to demand I knock it off.

“No.” I’m still out of breath from rushing to answer the door. “I was just getting out of the tub.” I swipe a hand up the back of my hair, tucking in loose strands while clutching at the side of my flannel with my other hand.

“Sorry I missed it.” Nick’s eyes twinkle.

The innuendo in his tone isn’t missed, and my legs tremble, desperate to come together to quell the ache that still lingers from the interruption.

“Do you always answer the door dressed like this?” His eyes scan up my body once more causing my skin to pebble.

“I don’t own a robe.”

Nick’s face slowly morphs from flirtatious to something more somber. His eyes narrow. “Are you alone?” The question is more of a suggestion, almost as if he’s hoping I was alone in that tub versus sharing the space with someone.

“Of course.” The answer is too quick, like I’m guilty when all I’d been doing was giving my thoughts over to fantasies of him. “What did you need?”

In all the months I’ve lived here, Nick has never knocked on my door to borrow some sugar or ask for bread. Not that I’d do such a thing to him, but there were times in my old house when I’d be out of stock on sugar the night before Eloise needed cookies for school and Mitch wasn’t home to run to the store. Or there was that time when I didn’t know I didn’t have a spare loaf of bread in the freezer and asked my generous neighbor if she could make two extra sandwiches for my kids for summer camp.

“My plans for this evening were cancelled.”

“Oh, too bad.” Poor woman, whoever she was.

“I suddenly have two tickets for something, and I thought you might like to go. You mentioned earlier how Nash and Eloise are with your parents for the night.”

“Oh, well, thanks but I’m not really dressed, and I don’t have anyone to ask—”

Nick’s deep chuckle abruptly cuts me off. “Get dressed. And go out with me.”

I stare at him, as if he’s Santa asking me to lead his sleigh. Did my next-door neighbor just ask me out on a date? Is this some kind of Christmas prank?

It hits me that I’m a substitute for whoever he intended to take somewhere and while my excitement rose at the prospect of Nick asking me out, the crash that follows at the thought of being secondary is like the man in the red sleigh colliding into my roof instead of softly landing on it.