Ladies Man (Manwhore #4)(48)

Ohmigod! I’m home.

Home for now.

Rachel sent Saint’s two corporate drivers to help load, transport, and unload the boxes. By 5 p.m., my friends have helped me open most of them, and I’ve even made my bed.

I get a call from Trent. Although we’re still on a break, he keeps making attempts to see me or stay in touch. I tell him I’m moving in today and that I can’t meet him until later. I expected him to offer to help, but instead he says he’ll call me when I’m done. I miss you, he says.

I set my phone down and for some reason, end up checking the last text I got from Tahoe. Eons ago, it seems.

I haven’t seen him since I went to his apartment. But I asked Rachel how he was, and she told me his cast was removed, and that he’s been spending most of his lacrosse games in the penalty box.

When I remember that, and the way we parted, I accidentally knock over a soda can.

“Fuck.” I clean the soda up from the floor and throw the can away, then peer down at the dark, sticky stain on my shirt.

“Oh, look at that,” Wynn says as she peers out the window.

I’m really not interested in whatever she’s looking at. I’m too busy heading to the bathroom to clean up the mess I made. I try running water over the spot and then patting it dry with a towel. It’s not perfect, but it’s moving day so it will have to do.

I step back out into the living room when I spot a tall guy with a red baseball cap in my apartment. He’s carrying a huge box and a dozen bags from Whole Foods, all of which he sets down on the counter.

“You are a dream,” Wynn gushes as she signals to the Whole Foods bags. “We’re starving.”

I approach with a frown. “I didn’t order—” My words cut off when the tall guy with the cap turns to look at me.

They trail off when intense blue eyes meet mine under the rim of the cap.

Oh god, I was so distracted by the mess of boxes scattered around me that I hadn’t recognized him.

Now I can’t breathe.

I swear to god the floor crumples under my feet and I’m falling from one end of the Earth to the other. Because I just did not expect to see Tahoe here. He’s dressed in his work suit, except for that cap that covers that mane of delicious blond hair. It’s almost as if the wind is extra crazy today and that’s how he chose to tame his hair, rather than brush it.

His beard is a little longer, a little too sexy, and the beast has such a beautiful face that my eyes nearly ache from how much I missed seeing it.

His eyes sparkle at my expression of surprise, and he places a wrapped sandwich from the Whole Foods bag on a plate and hands it over. He smiles a little sardonically, still looking into my eyes as I take it and just hold it like a nitwit, all while I hold his gaze, hold my breath, hold onto this moment.

“Aren’t you going to eat it?” His voice is low and intimate, almost as if Wynn and Rachel and all the movers aren’t bustling around here.

Exhaling as I try to calm my heartbeat, I unwrap the sandwich, open my mouth, and take a bite.

The seconds seem to stretch on forever and at the same time, they seem to be swallowed up by the present when Wynn peers past my shoulder. “What is that? Turkey club? God, I want one.”

“Go right ahead.” Tahoe grabs one and tosses it in the air to Wynn, who catches it readily.

Tahoe’s voice is lower than usual, his drawl noticeable as he looks back at me and takes a step only to lightly touch his finger to my nose as if saying, We’re good, right?

I look up at him. He stares at my face from so close that we could almost be one. He reaches out to rumple my hair, smiles at me the way he usually does, as if I amuse him, and grabs my sandwich and takes a bite of it for himself.

I nearly melt with relief. After many nightmares, tossing and turning, wondering if whatever friendship we had was over, my T-Rex is here, and he’s back.

We all gather around the kitchen counter to eat, and I’m surreptitiously looking at Tahoe’s profile as we all take a little break and chow down.

Suddenly my home does feel like home.

Busy, and lively, and though it’s still 50 percent littered with boxes and wrapped furniture, I’m not scared about being in this place all alone anymore.

He’s the last to leave.

We’re sitting on the living room’s natural wood floor, leaning against the wall that faces my window with the best view, my couches still covered in plastic, and our legs aligned, side by side, when I toe his foot.

“Cast gone, huh?”

Pulling back the sleeve of his white button shirt (he’d discarded his jacket a while ago), he shows me his thick, tanned wrist and turns it over. “Good as new.”

We smile at the same time, but when our lashes lift, our eyes aren’t smiling at all.

And suddenly I have to speak what’s been on my mind all day.

“Would you have liked me to throw your food like you threw my pie?” I stare out the window as I say this. I’m not sure I have the courage to look at him right now.

I glance sideways at him when he remains silent. “Why?” I ask.

A rueful grin appears on his lips, almost apologetic, but something dark lurks in his gaze. “Why do you think? Huh?” He studies me as if dissecting each and every one of my features. “Because I wasn’t hungry for pie.”

The rueful smile remains on his lips before he drops his head and laughs mockingly, stroking his dimple restlessly.