Forbidden With Me - Leigh Lennon Page 0,42
a good read on these two. Wells seems irritated by Stewart, and he was certainly a bit jealous when Stewart was chatting with me earlier. Then there’s the fact that Wells loves to annoy the shit out of him by calling him kid and Higgie.
“Yeah, maybe you should not be a pretentious old man.” A swing of his gaze my way shows me the funny side of Higgie.
“You two are like an old married couple. All that’s missing is the kiss and make-up,” I jest, and in the midst of Wells’s scurry to clean Higgie’s mess, his frown my way is nothing but his fun-loving nature disguised by his glare. Behind it, I see a wicked grin which says he’s going to get me.
“Who knew we had a jokester in our midst, kid?” His question is directed to Higgie. Wells’s digs continue, but in the back and forth of this odd but funny banter, and for a moment, I forget the clusterfuck that is my life.
My bag is still slung around my shoulder, Stewart watching me. “Hey, old man, instead of messing with me, why don’t you go show our guest to her room.”
There’s a way in how Higgie calls him old man, and in a flash, you can see it gets under his skin with a reddening of his face. I love this broody demeanor on Wells. How can he be more sexy? It’s easy, just make him a little moody—oh, and naked.
“Come on, I’ll show you to your room.” His smile is only directed toward me.
I’d only been in the front part of his open living space. Well, besides the time I opened the door with a baseball bat and saw his growing erection under my scrutiny.
“You framed more of my artwork?” I begin, looking at another one of my pieces in the hallway, a vase of flowers. Thinking about it now, it’s far too feminine for his masculine bachelor’s pad, but he framed it because it’s me and I know I mean more to him than he’s willing to admit.
He stops in the small hallway, out of Higgie’s view, and pulls me around, so we’re facing one another. “Yes, of course I had. They got me through some very hard times, along with the brightness and beauty of your art.”
Four doors sit in a cluster as we make it to the end of the small hallway, near the back of his house. He points to the left. “This is the bathroom.” Behind the wall that’s set out a bit, he directs his finger to another door. “This is my bedroom, as you know.” Ah, he remembers, and I snicker at the memory. “Across the hall is the guest room and my home office. I have a murphy bed, but don’t tell Higgie.” He twists his body toward the living space again and has done a complete circle in the hallway. Pointing at the door across from the bathroom, he continues, “This is the guest room where you’ll be staying for now.”
My hand reaches the doorknob, and in one fluid motion, I have it opened, and I’m gathering more information about the man thirteen years my senior, my eyes darting from object to object. The bed, a king-sized one to be exact, is covered with a light beige quilt, in a paisley pattern of similar colors. Beige is not the masculine color I’d been expecting, maybe black upon gray and more black. But this is a calming, refreshing, and downright pretty room. The end table near the bed is round in a whitewash with a picture turned toward it. I can’t see what it is yet. On the wall, above a white bed frame, is the painting of my aunt’s covered porch, I’d sent him two years ago right before my visit. The floors are bamboo with a large area rug under the bed. Taking one step over the threshold, I’m at peace, one I’ve not felt since before Mally died. Is it this room, or the man next to me? I’m positive it’s the latter, but the room is confirming how comfortable I am in Wells’s space.
The window treatments are pulled back, a darker beige to match one of the many colors on the quilt. And through the window is a beautiful backyard with a gazebo, a covered porch, and flowerbeds overflowing with many types of floral arrangements.
I take a few steps until I twist my body toward him, he’s still in the doorway. In the peripheral