“Ty,” I called and he didn’t look at me but still I repeated, “What?” He continued not to look at me so I asked, “What don’t you get?”
Then his eyes sliced to me and he proceeded without hesitation to rock my world.
“You’re part-goof all class. Never walked in a room, any room, with a woman on my arm, any woman, who’s got your looks, your style, the kinda beauty you got and the light that shines from you. So I don’t get it. I don’t get how a woman leads a life full of shit and comes out of it bein’ part-goof and all class. That shit’s impossible but there you f**kin’ are. Part-goof, all class.”
I felt my breath coming fast but managed to whisper, “I’m not part-goof.”
“You’re right. I was bein’ nice. You’re a total goof.”
“Am not.”
“Babe, you call me ‘hubby’,” he pointed out but my breath came faster because he called me “babe” again.
“You are my hubby.”
“No one says hubby,” he told me.
“I do,” I told him.
“All right, I’ll rephrase. No one but a goof says hubby.”
“Is that written in stone somewhere?”
“It should be.”
“So, you don’t like it.”
At that, his body twisted minutely in my direction, his chin dipped down a half a centimeter, his eyes locked with mine and I quit breathing.
And his voice was a very low rumble when he stated, “I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”
“Okay,” I breathed.
“I like it.” He kept rumbling.
“Okay,” I repeated breathily.
“You’re still a f**kin’ goof.”
I kept silent.
“And I like that too,” he finished, readjusted microscopically and his eyes slid to the TV.
I decided my best course of action at that juncture was to point my eyes at the TV too so I did. Then I struggled to regain control of my breathing. I managed this feat. Then I wondered again what he was wearing under the sheet. Then I struggled to quit wondering and also managed that but barely. Then I allowed the fact that he liked me calling him “hubby” and that I was a goof (he thought) to penetrate. Then I tried to stop myself from allowing the fact that I liked that he liked those things and I also liked all the other things he said to penetrate.
I failed at that.
Then I pulled the covers up high on my shoulder because the room was f**king freezing and I managed to fall asleep in a bed with Ty Walker.
I woke up and he was gone. This time, he left a note on his pillow that said,
L
Gym.
T
I studied it with sleepy eyes and for some bizarre reason, memorized his slashes. And that was what his handwriting was. Dark, heavily pressed slashes. Even where there should be curves there were slashes.