Sugar on the Edge (Last Call #3)(19)

Finally, the key slides home and I open the front door. I can hear Gavin moving around in the kitchen. When I walk in, he’s pulling a bottle of water out of the fridge. As he straightens and closes the door, my stomach gives a little flip because holy hell, he’s standing there without his shirt on and his chest is just as magnificent as I remembered it. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of track pants and silver and black running shoes. His chest and face are covered with sweat, his hair plastered to his head, and it’s clear he just worked out or something.

Twisting the cap off the water bottle, he gives me a smile and says, “Good morning.”

“You’re an *,” I tell him with a straight face, fulfilling my promise to call him that without any provocation. I stifle the yawn that wants to burst out of my mouth, which would totally dilute the power of my message.

He smirks at me briefly, and then starts drinking his water. The way his throat moves is freakin’ sexy as hell, and I use the opportunity to stare at him unnoticed.

When he finishes the entire bottle, he sets it on the counter. “I just got done with my run, and I’m going to hit the shower before I start writing. Can you go ahead and start with the vacuuming so it doesn’t interfere with me later?”

I roll my eyes at his thoughtful gesture and walk to the counter to pick up his empty water bottle. Pulling open one of the bottom cupboards, I toss it in the recycle bin. “Sure. Anything else special today?”

“Um… maybe a sandwich at lunch?” he asks.

“Be glad to,” I say as I notice that the sink is full of dishes again, but at least they all appear to have been rinsed off. Geez… why can’t he just put the damn things in the dishwasher?

“Are you still mad at me?” he asks.

I jerk in surprise. “No, why would you think that? Because I called you an *?”

“No,” he says chuckling. “You gave me fair warning you were going to do that. Bonus points for that, by the way. It’s just… you seem kind of quiet today.”

Cocking an eyebrow at him, I grab my vacuum cleaner and head for the staircase. “Just trying to stay within the bounds of your stereotype of me,” I quip, but truthfully, I’m too freakin’ tired to muster up the brainpower to hold conversation.

When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I feel a pull on the vacuum cleaner. I turn to see Gavin pulling it out of my hands. “I’ll carry that up for you.”

“Thanks,” I murmur, not quite sure how to handle this nicer, more gentlemanly Gavin Cooke.

“My pleasure, Sweet,” he says and then bounds up the steps ahead of me.

“Sweet?” I ask, dumbfounded by this apparent nickname he’s given me.

“Yeah… ‘sweet’… because you’re… well, sweet.”

“For a writer, you’re not very original,” I mutter, and he laughs in response.

When I reach the top of the stairs, I see the vacuum cleaner waiting there and Gavin disappearing into his room. I go ahead and get started on the three spare bedrooms first, which will give Gavin plenty of time to get showered and vacated before I vacuum the large area rug in his bedroom.

Unfortunately, the normal lull that I find so peaceful with the vacuuming about sends me into a deep sleep while I’m standing, so I make my movements a little shorter in stride to bust up my rhythm. Glancing at my watch, I see I’ve only been at it for five minutes, and I’m about ready to topple over. God, I can’t wait for this day to be over.

When I finish with the spare bedrooms, I cautiously walk into Gavin’s. His bathroom door is still shut, so I plug in the machine and start to move it across the huge rug. I try to make quick work of it so I can get out of the privacy of his room, but within just moments of me starting, the bathroom door opens and a wave of steam pours out.

And yeah… Gavin walks out with nothing but a towel around his narrow waist.

I sneak a quick glance at him, and shit… that memory will be seared into my brain forever. He’s a pretty ripped guy, but my eyes were helplessly drawn to that dark line of hair that went due south from just below his navel. It brought back memories of the way he was exposed outside of his boxers when I first met him. I had a guilty curiosity course through me, wondering how big he would be if he were fully erect.

Gavin doesn’t say a word, although I probably wouldn’t hear him over the hum of the vacuum. I turn my back on him, moving my way around the other side of his bed. Just as I’m about finished with that side, I jump as something goes sailing past my shoulder and lands on the floor beside me. Glancing down, I see it’s the towel he was wearing. My skin prickles with awareness that I’m standing in the same room with a very naked, and very sexy, British author.

I know this is a test. He’s testing me to see how anti-heroine I can be. I’m sure he expects me to blush deeply—which, okay, I am—but I’m sure he expects me to stiffen up in mortification and ignore his taunt due to extreme embarrassment.

It’s time to show Mr. Cooke my heroine traits.

Holding the vacuum handle in one hand, I bend over and grab the towel, throwing it over my shoulder. I turn my head, look straight at him, and will myself to maintain eye contact and not look at anything below his chin.

“Thanks,” I call out loud enough that he can hear me over the vacuum. I even give him a quick wink before turning back around.