out from the open hallway loft. My shoulders lift as I follow her down, only hearing a murmured Merry Christmas, Piper from behind us as we descend the narrow staircase.
I flick on the lights just as Ainsley dives toward the multi-colored presents wrapped underneath the tree. Some of them I don’t recognize and wonder if Easton put them there after he left my room last night, making my face flush when footsteps sound from behind me.
Busying myself with moving the coffee table out of the way and plugging in the tree lights, I try to ignore the prickling awareness of the six-two tatted man watching us from the landing of the stairs.
Clearing my throat, I brush my fingers through Ainsley’s hair to try controlling the way it sticks out everywhere. Eventually giving up, I press a kiss to the crown of her head and pass her the stocking full of candy and Barbie accessories to open first.
Finally turning to meet East’s eyes, I note his own untamed bedhead that normally rests in a purposely unkempt messy ‘do. The sides of his nearly black hair are shorter than the top, with slight waves that make me wonder if his hair curls when it’s longer. He’s only lived with me for seven months, and in that time I’ve never seen it grow past what it is now.
“Coffee?” I ask, not waiting for him to answer before walking past him. The downstairs of our three-bedroom townhome is all open space minus a half bath and coat closet off the entryway.
I don’t have to look behind me to sense he followed, so I look through the cupboard for the can of coffee only to find it missing. My eyes wander along the countertops, searching for salvation with tired eyes and coming up short. Gripping the edge of the marble counter, I blow out a breath and drop my head.
“We’re out?” he asks behind me, his voice low as ever. He never speaks loud as if broody and broodier are his only volumes. It works for him. The tan lean twenty-eight-year-old standing in the modern kitchen just feet from me is every girl’s wet dream from his looks and laid back but mysterious personality, to the way he talks. His right arm is covered in an intricate black tattoo sleeve of words and images that goes all the way up to his collarbone and edge of his neck. The back of his hand has small letters on it that forms a thought-out design, and I know he has other tattoos on his back and left side of his ribcage.
Clicking my tongue, I brush hair behind my ears and nod, turning to face him. I’m grateful he slid a shirt on, or I’d be staring. My hip leans against the counter, but I don’t make eye contact with him. Our arrangement started just shy of two months ago after a little too much alcohol. One night turned into two, which turned into three, until I got used to chasing a high with his body that took me out of my head for a while.
He’d always come to my room.
And he’d always leave.
And it works.
“Need me to go get some?” are the next words from his mouth. He knows I need caffeine in order to function, especially this early. How he manages it is beyond me considering he’s usually out late at the tattoo parlor he co-owns with a friend in town. Yet every morning between five and six he’s up, in running gear, and ready to start his day on what I only assume is five hours or less of sleep. Usually less on the nights he comes to my room.
As much as I want to say yes, I shake my head and grab a clean glass from the drainer and fill it with water from the sink. “It’s Christmas. Nothing will be open.”
He simply makes a contemplative noise, as if he’s humming in agreement, before pushing off the wall he stands by and walking over to the refrigerator. We never speak about what goes on after dark and rarely make small talk about anything. The quiet between us is usually comfortable, not awkward, but he’s also never kissed me before leaving my room at night either.
Jabbing my thumb behind me with my free hand, I give him a tired smile. “I’m going in the other room. Ainsley will want to start opening the other presents. So…”