Pen Pal(17)

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the wet idiot standing in a stranger’s kitchen at one o’clock in the morning.”

“I’m not a stranger, remember? And you’re not an idiot.”

He seems irritated that I called myself that. Or maybe his irritation has to do with my unexpected arrival, which would make a lot more sense. The poor man has to go to work in the morning, and now he’s got a soaking psychopath to deal with.

He pulls the towel up over my head and starts blotting the rain from my hair.

My face flaming, I say miserably, “I think I might be dying of humiliation.”

“You’re not dying of anything. Be quiet and let me do this.”

I close my eyes and stand there wondering how a person would know if they lost their mind. But I force myself to stop thinking about it because the signs of insanity probably include imagining the rain is a burglar and fleeing for help to the home of the roofer you fired and turned down for sex.

In a conversational tone, Aidan says, “We’re gonna have a discussion later about why you chose me to come to when you were scared, but in the meantime, walk me through what happened.”

I’m too chicken to look at him while I talk, so I keep my eyes shut and tell him everything. When I’m done, he says, “You don’t have a security alarm?”

“No.”

“We’ll fix that tomorrow.”

I finally get the courage to look at him. His expression is a nice combination of amusement and concern. Those dark eyes of his are warm, but his brows are still drawn down.

Resisting the urge to reach up and pet his beard, I say, “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. And you’re still shivering.”

“I can’t help it. I’m freezing.”

He stops rubbing my head with the towel. “I’m gonna say something now. Don’t freak out.”

“You should’ve just said it. Now I have to freak out.”

“You need to change into dry clothes.”

I frown at him. “Why would that freak me out?”

“Because the dry clothes you’re gonna change into are mine.”

We stand a foot apart, me shivering with cold, him smoldering with heat, until I say, “I doubt you have anything that would fit me.”

He smiles. “Look at you, not freaking out at all.”

“Oh, I am. But I’ve done enough weird things for one night, so I’m keeping it on the inside.”

“Come with me.”

He leads me by the hand out of the kitchen and down the hallway into his bedroom. While he goes into his closet and turns on the light, I stare at his bed, which consists of one pillow and a blanket on top of a mattress laid out right on the floor. The only other things in the room are a simple wood dresser on one wall and a bookcase stuffed with books on the other.

“Yeah, I know. Super deluxe. Here.”

He’s back, holding out a black sweatshirt so large, I could wear it to dinner with a belt and heels and be well dressed.

I take it from him and clutch it to my chest like a security blanket. The towel is still draped around my head and shoulders. I’m still shaking with cold.

I feel utterly ridiculous.

“Aidan?”

“Yes, Kayla?”

“I’m really sorry about this. I promise I’m not a giant basket case. I’m just a little one.”

Looking very serious, he strokes a strand of damp hair off my cheek. He murmurs, “You’re not anything but beautiful.” After a pause, he adds, “You don’t have to freak out about that, either. I don’t try to seduce traumatized women who run in from the rain.”

“Okay. Thanks for that. Um…do you possibly have a pair of sweatpants I could wear with this?”

“You’d be swimming in them.”

“I know, but…”

“But what?”

I take a deep breath and say it. “I’ll be extremely self-conscious if my coochie is hanging out.”

He blinks in confusion.

“I don’t have any underwear on.”

“Oh. Oh.”

“Yes. So.”

“Wait. You came over here with no underwear on?”

“I promise it wasn’t premeditated.”

When he lifts a brow, I sigh. “I got dressed in a panic. I didn’t have time for panties.”

“Or a bra, either,” he says, his voice lower.

I wince. “You noticed.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Of course I noticed.” He pauses. “I also noticed that your cheeks get really red when you’re embarrassed.”

I say drily, “Thanks for the info. Are you giving me sweats or not?”

“I don’t own a pair of sweatpants.”

“Oh.”

“I can put your jeans in the dryer, though.” When I don’t say anything, he adds, “Or we can just stand here and stare at each other. I’m good with that, too.”

“Why?”

After a beat, he says quietly, “I like looking at you.”

There’s a funny sensation inside my chest. Like a tightening but also a loosening at the same time. I’m pretty sure it means I’m about to do something I’ll regret.