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I scrub myself with soap and an exfoliating sponge, aware that I’m a man but I don’t have to be a Neanderthal. I even moisturize.

My shower routine is a little rushed because I’m mindful of the timer, but I wash my hair and beard as well before shutting off the water. I’m drying myself off while reading Isla’s next message, my brows drawing down as I do.

Isla

Client. The only good thing is that it’s just paint. If she doesn’t like it, she can cover it in white paint.

Me

The sign of a great artist is that no matter how good you are, you still agonize over every brush stroke. I’m willing to bet she’ll love it.

I use a little beard oil to keep my hair soft, shave my neck, and brush my teeth as I watch the message chat stay suspiciously silent. It’s making me even more curious about her artwork. There’s no way she doesn’t have talent.

I get dressed in a pair of dark jeans, a long sleeved gray shirt that I roll the sleeves up on and jog downstairs barefoot to put together the lasagna. I listen to music as I work, pushing the dish into the oven to cook.

I keep myself busy by setting up the tattoo machines on a table in the living room, pick up around the house, and vacuuming. It’s been a fucking week, but that doesn’t mean that I need to look like a slob when she comes over.

I even have time to clean up the kitchen and mop the floors so I can look like a respectable fucking bachelor. I can’t tell you the last time I had a woman over to my house. I’ve had friends here occasionally, but when I have down time, I typically catch a drink at a bar with them to catch up.

Before I met Isla, I’d have one-night stands to scratch the itch when Jenna would complain that I needed to get laid because I was cranky. I’d meet someone at a bar far away from where I live, go over to her place to fuck, and be out the door by the time she fell asleep. It may seem sleazy, but I made sure the women I slept with were on the same page as me. We never exchanged numbers, and I never promised anything more than a good time.

That’s all I was willing to offer until Isla.

I jerk in surprise as the doorbell rings, even though I’ve been waiting for her. Ugh. I need to get my shit together. My house is clean on this level, though I can’t vouch for the second floor. I doubt we’ll make it that far, so I won’t have to worry about it.

I check the timer to find that there’s about ten minutes left on it, and walk to the door to open it.

“Hi. Wow.” I think I invited an angel to dinner. Her dark curls are shining down her back, and she looks beautiful. She has her usual bag slung over her head and I glance around her to find she drove.

I breathe an internal sigh of relief, because while I regularly jog or walk to work, I don’t want her to have to do that.

“You look incredible, Isla.” I open my arms up for a hug, and she steps right into me. While one of my arms wraps around her back, my free hand sinks into her hair.

It’s exactly as soft as it looks, and she relaxes in my embrace. While she largely appears unbothered to the outside world, this shows that’s a lie.

Isla Peters wears a mask. It’s well placed, friendly, but as I dig my fingers into her scalp, I can feel her tension.

“You give such good hugs,” she moans softly. I’m giving her a lot more than a hug, but I continue to hold her in the doorway, despite how dumb that is.

People talk too damn much here.

“Mmm. You’re the only one I want to hug. Come inside, and you have all of my hugs. Dinner is almost done.”

I lead her inside, my hand on her back. I watch her while she looks around my home, while admiring her beauty. She’s wearing a cropped black shirt over a high waisted blue skirt with black flowers, and it appears to flutter around her as she walks. She has a lightweight sweater over the cropped shirt, and as I look closer, I see that she’s wearing skeletal hand berets in her hair.

“Something smells amazing. Do you want me to take my shoes off?”

“Why do you ask that?” I look down at my lack of shoes and shake my head. “No. I wear shoes all day, and like to go barefoot at home. If feet freak you out, I can put on socks.”

“No,” she laughs. “You have nice feet.”

“We’re going to eat outside. Let me check the food while you sit.”

Pulling out a stool, I lift her into it because it’s a little high. My house is built for giants, not cute little pixies. Her hands wrap around my biceps as she looks up at me, and I brush her hair over her shoulder once I know she’s good. She’s wearing the necklace her son bought her, and as I force myself to think about it, I realize she never takes it off.

The timer pulls me away, and I bustle around the kitchen to put our food on a tray I can easily bring outside.

“You went to a lot of trouble for me, Arran.”