Jock Row (Jock Hard #1)(66)

To me, it’s the sexist part of a man—the delicious slope at the back of their neck where their shoulders meet.

I love everything about that spot on his body, the straining muscles of his trapezius and deltoids. The freshly trimmed hair at Rowdy’s nape. The tight fit of his dark shirt and the promise that its fabric would be velvety soft beneath my fingers if I had the nerve to caress it. Or hook the tip of one finger inside his collar and trail it along his warm skin.

I want to plow my hands through his neatly shorn mop. Run my palms down his smooth shoulder blades slowly. Daydream about it while the mirrors in his bathroom fog from shower steam and I scrub myself clean under the spray of Sterling Wade’s shower.

Lifting his red bottle of liquid body gel from the shelf, I snap the top open, inhaling the masculine scent. Mmm, I get to curl up with him later and do whatever I want to him.

The thought sends my stomach surging into a dramatic roll, nerves causing me to snap the bottle shut. Concentrate on my task, scrubbing myself clean. Wash, rinse, repeat.

Smooth a bar of Dove soap over my breasts and between the apex of my thighs. I lather up my legs, my calves. Run a blue disposable razor slowly up the length of each one until all the hair is sliced off. Stroke my hands up and down, rinsing away the suds.

Shave between my legs.

Clean.

Smooth.

I dry off with a big, gray towel, patting it along my damp skin, humidity moistening my flesh. Slide on my underwear. Pull on tank top and sleep shorts.

Go through my regular bathroom routine: lotion, moisturizer, body spray.

Pad down the hall when I’ve finished in the bathroom, Rowdy’s room empty when I give a little tap and push the door open.

Bite down on my lip, debating.

Loathe to sit here by myself with only nervous energy for company while he sits downstairs with his parents, I rifle through my suitcase and find the one sweatshirt I packed, yanking it over my wet tresses.

I’m heading down the back stairs when the sound of his mother’s voice gives me pause at the bottom step, foot poised to continue.

“Where is Scarlett, sweetie?” Mrs. Wade asks.

“In the shower. Then I’ll just meet her in bed

“Whose bed?” His mother’s good-natured laugh makes me blush a bright, cherry red.

“Haha, very funny. Mine.” He’s shameless. “We couldn’t find any sheets to fit the bed in the spare bedroom and we looked all over. Are you sure you want us sharing a bed?”

“Dammit.” She hmphs. “Those sheets are probably still folded up in the laundry room—you know how I get when I’m on a deadline. I’m too tired to go check, so no funny business under this roof, okay? We’re trusting you.”

Rowdy sighs. “Mom, we’re going on vacation tomorrow and you’re sticking us in a private room for two nights.”

“Because you’re not a teenager anymore. I don’t want to trust you—I have to trust you. That doesn’t mean I’m not going to be listening for strange noises tonight.”

“Oh my god, Mom.”

She clicks her tongue. “What happens on the high seas stays on the high seas—as long as what happens doesn’t come back to haunt us in nine months. Ha.”

He isn’t amused. “Do you honestly think you’re being funny?”

“Yes, I honestly think I’m being funny.” She titters. “It’s my job as your mother to humiliate you and make you uncomfortable as long as I roam this earth.”

I can hear him rolling his eyes. “And another thing: please don’t watch everything we do with a calculating look on your face.”

“Calculating—good word, sweetie.”

“Mom, I’m being serious.”

Her sigh is drawn out. “Why do you think I’m watching you? I see Iowa isn’t doing your ego any favors.”

“Come on, I know you’re using us for research.”

“I am appalled by the accusation.” His mom huffs dramatically but doesn’t deny it.

“Well, is that what you’ve been doing?”

“I might be…just a little.” Another pause. “Count yourself lucky I’m not taking actual notes—this little back and forth between the two of you is romance novel gold. I can feel the tension in my soul.”

“Jesus, Mom! This is why I never bring anyone home.”

“No, that is not why you never bring anyone home. You never bring anyone home because you’ve never liked anyone enough, not even Chelsea Newman, and she was such a lovely girl.”

“I hate when you do that,” Rowdy groans. “Stop bringing up my ex-girlfriends.”

“You were seventeen and she was your girlfriend for all of ninety seconds—that hardly counts. You barely held hands.”

“We did more than hold hands.” He chuckles deep in his chest at his joke.

His mother ignores him. “I’m just illustrating my point. You haven’t brought anyone home since high school, and this one you had fly in from another state during the holidays?” It sounds like she’s taking a long sip from her coffee mug, followed by the telltale sign of it hitting the table’s wooden surface. “Want to tell me what that’s all about? Dad and I have been dying from curiosity.”

“Dad is not dying from curiosity.”