Reluctantly Yours(56)

Lucy greets me with Baxter at her feet, who jumps up at me, so I lower down to snuggle him.

His usually fluffy hair is damp.

“How’d you get wet?” I ask him, thankful for the distraction.

“Mr. St. Clair took him out for a run this morning. They both came back soaked,” Lucy replies.

Her comment only reminds me of wet Barrett in the shower. Well, it was a good ten seconds without his naked image in my brain.

Lucy has fresh squeezed orange juice, bacon, eggs, pastries and fruit ready to serve.

“Would you like to wait for Mr. St. Clair?” she asks.

“Um,” I start, not knowing how long Barrett will be, or if I can ever face him again. I really thought sharing a bed was going to be the issue. I didn’t give myself enough credit that I would manage to find other awkward yet sexually arousing situations in which I could embarrass myself. Maybe I’ll take my breakfast to go and start the long, yet necessary trek back to the city so I don’t have to die of mortification.

“No need to wait. I’m here.”

Too late.

I turn to find Barrett standing in the doorway dressed casually in a fitted navy polo and gray slacks. My eyes automatically lower to his crotch and I swear I can see the outline of his dick. What’s left of his impressive erection. I can’t look at him so I busy myself loading up a plate of food.

“Coffee?” Lucy asks.

“Yes,” we say in unison.

“I left you a mug on the bedside table.” His deep voice reverberates in my ear.

I keep facing forward even when I feel Barrett move closer, the warmth of his chest near my shoulder and back as he leans in to dish up some eggs.

“Oh?” I say. It's an effort to keep my voice neutral. “I didn’t see it.” I was too busy staring at your giant cock in the shower.

“Cream and sugar?” Lucy offers, completely oblivious to the electricity crackling between me and Barrett.

“Cream, please,” Barrett replies.

“Yes,” is all I manage to say, but Lucy must be well versed in women who are stunned speechless because she manages to make me the best cup of coffee I’ve ever had.

We sit in the breakfast nook. I shovel in my food while Lucy informs us of the day’s schedule.

“Mr. Hinkle had a boat ride planned but the weather doesn’t seem to be cooperating.”

For the first time this morning I glance out the window to find gray clouds and rain drops peppering the surface of the swimming pool.

“If there’s anything you’d like me to set up, please let me know. It’s questionable if the firework show will still happen with the rain. It will likely be a last-minute decision.”

“I’m sure we’ll find something to do,” Barrett replies. I feel his eyes on me, and I can’t not look at him. The second I do, I realize it was a horrible idea. Those intense hazel eyes are studying me. His lips turned up in a smirk. I watch those long fingers, the same ones that were wrapped around his erection in the shower, manipulate his spoon as he digs into the juicy flesh of the grapefruit. His mouth closes around the pink flesh and he groans in satisfaction. I nearly topple out of my chair.

My core clenches involuntarily.

Sweet Jesus. I’m in trouble.





Barrett must sense my stress because after breakfast he doesn’t make good on his threat of us finding something to do, but instead retreats to Fred’s home office to work. For once, I breathe a sigh of relief that all he does is work. That’s where I want his energy focused right now, instead of on me.

The rain continues to pour and I spend most of the morning reading a manuscript under a cozy blanket with Baxter curled up next to me. He seems exhausted from the activities of the morning. I can totally relate.

Having put enough time and distance between Barrett’s shower, I retreat upstairs to take mine.

I’m in and out in record time. I also lock the door because that seems to be a major factor in this issue we keep having with bathrooms and walking in on each other and self-induced orgasms.

I throw my hair in a top knot and put my t-shirt and shorts back on. Feeling refreshed, I return to the sitting room and my book. But I feel restless, so I peruse the cabinet of books and games. I settle on Scrabble because I’ve already played WordIt today and it’s the next best thing.

I set up the game board, place the tiles face down and mix them around.

I’ve never played Scrabble by myself before, but I’m sure I’ll manage. I’m deciding whether I want to play as two players alternating or just one when Barrett clears his throat behind me.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

I know Barrett well enough by now to know that sometimes his questions come out as accusations even when he doesn’t mean it that way. Now being a perfect example.

“Playing Scrabble.”

“By yourself?”

“Do you want to play?” I ask.

His answer is to sit across from me. I’m surprised that he doesn’t ask to move the board so we’re sitting in proper chairs. My size is more conducive to this seating arrangement than Barrett’s tall frame. Instead, he folds his long legs under the coffee table and rests his back against the sofa behind him.

“What’s with you and word games?” he asks, carefully selecting his tiles. It’s a methodic process so intense I wonder if he’s using those telekinetic powers of his to read the letters on the tiles. Maybe that’s x-ray vision. The concentration of Barrett’s stare makes me think he has both.