Faker - Sarah Smith Page 0,54
my cold, wet skin? Or better, his mouth?
My foot slides toward him, but I stop when my toes are less than an inch from his shoe.
“Everything good?” he asks.
In an instant, my back finds the wall. “Yep.”
When I open the door, steam flows into the living room. I slip on a loose-fitting tank dress from the laundry basket still in my living room.
“Decent,” I call out to him.
“Cool. Give me a sec.”
I collapse onto the couch. It’s a minute before he steps out of the bathroom. He walks to the end of the sofa, his face red.
“You okay?” I ask.
He nods, sporting a flustered expression. His chest heaves, and he coughs a few times, his watchful gaze on me. It makes me feel as naked as I was in the bathtub minutes ago.
“Feel better?” he asks.
“Much.”
He hands me my sleeping mask. “Would it be okay if I came over again tomorrow?”
“I’d like that.”
Leaning over me, he plants a kiss on my forehead. His hand grazes my cheek. “Best if we keep things PG, don’t you think? For the sake of your recovery.”
I nod, despite my hope for something mouth to mouth. He’s right though. If our first kiss was any indication, our mouths are dangerous weapons when left unchecked.
I nod.
“Get some rest, okay?”
Quiet footsteps lead him back out the front door. When the door shuts behind him, I sink into the couch. The throb between my legs is back with a vengeance. This feeling is more than arousal, though. It’s a spark, a connection, the beginning of something new.
fourteen
Every single day since our bathtub session last week, Tate and I have connected. Days are spent texting each other sweet comments, jokes, or silly videos. Most evenings we cuddle on my couch. He always leaves me with a forehead kiss and a caress on the cheek, just like that first day he visited me. We both remark, usually with huffy breaths, that we prefer kissing with tongue, but I’ve got a body to heal.
The one time he couldn’t make it, he texted to let me know, then I received a grocery store delivery of pineapple and young coconut. I didn’t even have to hack away at the impossibly hard coconut shell. It was peeled and sliced, ready for me to chow down.
Seeing this whole new side of him is the reason for the ever-present swarm of butterflies in my stomach and why I wake up with a smile on my face each morning. Who knew Tate Rasmussen, the no-nonsense hard-ass, could be devastatingly sweet?
This morning is sweeter though. My first day back at work. Ten days postsurgery and I’m aching to return, not because I miss Nuts & Bolts, but because I’m itching to see Tate at work. We can finally spend all our working hours in this new bliss bubble we’ve created.
Through nerves and residual soreness, it’s a wobbly walk to my office. I scale the stairs fine, but the moment I turn the corner, my knees forget they’re supposed to bend. Forcing myself forward, I make my way to my office and sit at my desk. When I look to Tate’s open door, he’s turned away, his broad back and curly hair in full view. A tickle-kick hits my gut. The last time I laid eyes on him in this building, tension, frustration, and a bevy of other negative emotions pulsed through me. Everything about this day—the section of building we share, how we look at each other, the way we talk—will be different after our time together.
He stands up and disappears, but a split second later, he’s back in my line of view, exiting his office. Then it happens. He takes his first ever step into my space. I look down at his sneakered feet, which stand a full foot inside my doorway, four inches from the edge of my desk. Let the record show Tate Rasmussen entered my office for the first time this second Tuesday of September. Snowflakes are forming in hell. Winged pigs are soaring above. I never thought I’d see the day.
“Welcome back,” he says softly.
“Thanks. Hi.”
“Hi. How are you feeling?” It’s the same question he’s asked me every time he’s visited, but it still gives me shivers. His smoke-hued eyes pull a full-body once-over on me. Every day he’s seen me, he’s done that, and every day it’s given me goose bumps. Tingling, thrilling, delicious goose bumps. He’s examining me, in a caring, watchful way, like he’s making certain I’m okay.
“Fine. I mean,