perpetually cold. I’m pretty much in slippers between October and April.”
“Or heels.” He inclines his head toward the kitchen. “Come have a seat and I’ll make us a drink before we get down to business.”
I hoist myself up on a stool and pull on the warm wool socks. They’re so big they almost reach my knees. Ronan roots around in the fridge and returns with four bottles, which he lines up in front of me. “Do you like craft beer?”
“Depends on the beer, but I’m always game to try something new.” I pick up the one closest to me and read the handwritten label. “Rhubarb ale?”
“I have a few new flavors I’ve been trying out and I need a guinea pig. I can pour us each a flight and you can sample a few?”
“Sounds good. Can I help with anything?”
“Nope. I’ve got it covered.”
While Ronan pours us beers, I take the opportunity to inspect his body art more closely. From my vantage point, I have a great view of the woman’s portrait surrounded by blooming roses. I reach out and trace the contour of her face.
Ronan’s in the middle of pouring a beer, and I startle him with the unexpected contact, so some of it sloshes onto the counter.
“Oh! Sorry. That’s my fault; let me clean that up.” I hop off the stool and grab the closest rag.
“That’s okay, I got it.” His fingers wrap around my wrist and that warm, buttery feeling coasts through my veins. I’m sure my face is red. You’d think with the amount of time we spend together that I’d have gotten over my fascination with his art and the way his touch seems to affect me, but if anything it’s gotten worse, not better. Or maybe more intense is a more accurate way to explain it? I don’t know, but I’m definitely attracted to him.
Acting on that would not be a good idea. Too complicated. What if he’s bad in bed and we still have to cohost all of these events? Or worse, what if he thinks I’m bad in bed? And why am I suddenly thinking about sleeping with him just because he’s making innocuous physical contact?
“Blaire, I got it. No big deal,” he repeats, and I realize I’ve been staring at his hand wrapped around my wrist, lost in my own head. I hope it wasn’t for long.
“Really, I startled you. I can clean it up.”
“Blaire.” This time his tone makes me look up.
“Just let me help,” I press.
“You’re not holding a dishrag.” He’s sort of smirking, but his cheeks are pink.
“What?” I glance back down to the cloth in my hand.
“Just give it to me, please.” He tries to pry it from my fingers, but his sudden desperation to take it away makes me want to hold on tighter.
“Just let go,” I tell him.
“No. You let go.”
Are we really having a kindergarten-style fight over this? He spins me around so my back is against his chest and bars his free arm around me, but I’m wiggly and for once it’s him who seems to be embarrassed. And suddenly I realize why.
Instead of a dishcloth, I’m holding a pair of boxer briefs with a cartoon Santa holding a beer on them. “Oh my God! Why the hell do you have boxers on your counter! Are they dirty?”
Ronan lets me go and raises both hands in the air. “They’re fresh from the laundry, I swear. They fell out of my laundry basket and I found them on the floor and tossed them on the counter this morning on the way out the door. I know I live alone and I’m a dude, but I don’t normally keep my underwear on the counter.”
This time it’s Ronan who’s red-faced instead of the other way around. I decide I should savor the experience since I have no idea when it’s going to happen again. I hold them up and frown at the way the peen pouch holds its shape. “What’s going on here?” I poke at the pouch.
He makes a noise that sounds half like he’s choking and also a groan. “Don’t do that.”
“Why not? You said they’re clean. Are you lying?”
“I’m not lying,” he croaks.
I know he’s telling the truth because the fresh smell of his laundry detergent prevails as I wave around his festive underwear. This is more fun than it should be. I peek inside. These aren’t like regular underwear at all. “Are these for sports or something? Like they have a built-in