“Good guess, he’s down the hall and watchin’.”
My gut tightened again.
“Really?”
“Really.”
That’s when I thought, oh hell with it.
So I tried, “Why?”
He stared at me as he unbuttoned his shirt. He got it totally unbuttoned. Then he walked to his duffle.
He didn’t answer.
I sighed.
Then I turned to the table and picked up my bouquet, walking behind him as he pawed through the duffle and I went to the bathroom. Then I stoppered the sink, filled it with water and set the bouquet in it wishing I had scissors so I could give the stems a fresh cut in order for them to drink hearty. I didn’t want that bouquet to die. Not yet. Not tomorrow. Not the next day. I wanted to keep it alive for as long as possible. And it wasn’t because it cost a hundred and fifty dollars. I didn’t know why it was. I just knew I did.
I decided I’d take my steak knife and saw off the stems later.
I walked back into the bedroom to see Ty on the bed, eyes aimed at the TV which was on but muted, no sound at all, baseball game. He had not taken off his shirt and a wide (but not wide enough) expanse of his chest, abs and tats were on display. His feet were bare. His long, muscled legs stretched out. Ankles crossed. His back was to the headboard, one arm lifted, hand behind his head.
That big beautiful body reclined in bed, the big man energy that normally flowed from him turned low but not turned off, his gorgeous eyes on the game, his fantastic features no less fantastic at rest, I wondered, what the f**k?
Why go to a pimp for a woman when you looked like that? When you could take the elevator downstairs and find at least a couple dozen women on the floor playing slots who would jump at the chance to pretend to be your wife and you wouldn’t have to give up fifty grand or a secondary fortune in diamonds.
“Uh… Ty –” I started but as I spoke there came a knock on the door.
He angled off the bed and I moved across the room. A waiter came in with a tray on which was a silver bucket, a bottle of champagne draped in a crisp linen napkin, two glasses on the sides. He put it on the table by the window.
“Would you like me to open it?” he asked, tipping his head back to look at Walker.
Walker shook his head.
The waiter grinned a knowing grin, smiled at me and headed back to the door, Walker following him. Walker came back alone and went right to the champagne. He opened it with a practiced hand and poured a glass, handing it to me, another one for him.
“To connubial bliss,” I toasted as a joke, lifting my glass but his eyes cut to me.
Nope, no sense of humor.
He put the glass to his lips and threw back half the contents while I watched his corded throat working like I was watching a master at a canvas.
Then he dropped his chin and hand, grabbed the bottle, refilled and moved back to the bed, resuming his position but without the hand behind his head.
I took a sip of my champagne and walked to the side of the bed.
“Um… Ty,” I called and his eyes went from the game to me. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Yep,” he answered but I knew this meant I could ask but that didn’t mean he’d answer.
I took in a breath. Then I went for it.
“I don’t want to point out the obvious but… you’re hot.”
He stared at me but didn’t speak. I didn’t either.
Finally, he asked, “Is that a question?”