Lord, though.
I want to drag my tongue through that line of black hair that divides the wide hump of his belly in half. I want to bite his love handles. I want to climb onto his shoulders, just to watch him support my weight with ease. This man is unmovable and beautiful and I think—is it possible?—that I’m falling for him.
My blood pumps faster every time I think about what we did. How he found such unabashed pleasure just from looking at my body. It excites me. How turned on Daws is around me at all times. And what he did to me with his tongue…
Discreetly, I fan my heated face. I’ve given myself orgasms with my own fingers, but I’ve never, ever had anyone do that to me. Never thought anyone could succeed in blowing my mind so thoroughly. The experience was erotic and intense and…right. It felt right because of who it was with. This man who is gentle and reassuring and funny and protective. There wasn’t even a passing hint of self-consciousness.
I feel happy when I’m around him.
Right now, even under this deadline, I’m insanely, stupidly happy.
He tells me stories about the regulars at Mulloy’s while I work. About dirty Pauline, an elderly neighborhood lady who sneaks in every day at the same time, claiming to be hiding from the police. Then there’s Gil and his wife, Geraldine, who spend their summers traveling with an a cappella group, the construction workers who leave dust on the stools and the finance guys who come in to loosen their ties.
I confide my worries about falling short with my first line and he reassures me, telling me I’m going to knock it out of the park…and I believe him. I believe the confidence boosts in me.
While I get sewing on the jacket, Daws leaves and brings back chocolate shakes. Burgers and fries. Until that moment, I don’t realize how hungry I am, and eat mine in approximately ninety seconds while he laughs.
“Do you want to catch some sleep on the couch?” I ask, hurrying back to the sewing machine. “I’ll wake you up when it’s time for a fitting.”
He nods and drops down onto the leather, his feet hanging well over the edge. The very picture of a hibernating bear. His eyes close, but I don’t think he ever really sleeps. Several times while the machine whirs in front of me, I swear I feel his gaze on me from across the room and sparks dance up my neck.
What if there’s something real here?
I’m still a little raw over what happened on the reality show. Not because I had feelings for that jerk, but because I read the situation so wrong. I am naïve. Jocelyn tells me that all the time. I might be reading too much into Daws’s interest. This could just be about sex for him, whereas for me…I want to go on dates with this man. I want to go to baseball games, pull him behind a stall in the farmer’s market for a kiss, show him off to my friends.
Which means I am severely jumping the gun.
I’ve known him for all of five hours.
Reel it in, girl.
Still, I can’t help but continue to sneak looks at him while he naps.
And I’m pretty sure he’s sneaking them at me, too.
It’s five o’clock in the morning when I sew the final stitch and slump back in my chair. I start to get up and go wake Daws for the fitting, but he’s already closing the distance between us. There’s genuine interest on his face to see what I’ve done and it elevates my mood from exhausted to giddy.
“I like that,” he says gruffly, tracing the red gun barrel I’ve stitched onto the lapels. “You made it look like shoulder holsters.”
“Yes,” I breathe, standing up and holding the jacket against him. “It won’t take me long to do the matching pants today and put the same stitching on the pockets. And…hmm. I’m going to have you wear a plain white T-shirt underneath this. You’re a modern twist on a badass western sheriff. Deadwood meets Moulin Rouge.”
“I’m either really tired or you’re rubbing off on me, because that actually made sense,” he chuckles. “You want me to try it on?”
“Please!” I drag him to one of the full-length mirrors and help him put on the jacket, exhaling a sigh of relief when it drops down perfectly over his extra-broad shoulders. Smoothing wrinkles and picking lint, I circle him like a nervous hummingbird, finally stopping to examine him in the mirror. And wow. Just wow. He was already hot, but now he looks like an action star on the red carpet. “Oh, Daws. I can’t believe it…this might be my favorite piece in the whole line. It’s the anchor that’s going to pull it all together.”
“Comfortable, too,” he comments, testing the arms. “Good job, Nebraska.”
“Thank you.” I clasp my hands beneath my chin. “Now we just have to practice your runway walk.”
“I’m going to have to learn one before I can practice it.”
“Noted.” I scan the room and wince. “We’re going to need more space for legs as long as yours. Are you up for a walk?”
We buy coffees and walk up to the High Line, an old elevated rail line turned city park that runs along the West Side of Manhattan. The sun is just beginning to come up, rays of light threading in between the skyscrapers to our left, the Hudson River silent, stretching out endlessly on our right. There are normally crowds and vendors packing every inch of the narrow walk, but it’s early on a weekend and we’re the only people in the world. As wired as I am from a sleepless night followed by a fashion victory, the brisk, sharp morning feels extra surreal.
I set my paper coffee cup down on the railing and square my shoulders. “All right. Runway walk. So I don’t expect you to glide like a model. In fact, I don’t want you to. Just be Daws, okay? We’re only going to work on your pace and the turn.” I center myself in the middle of the High Line, straighten my back, deaden my eyes and strut. “See? There will be music playing. Keep pace with it, but don’t hurry.” I pause, widen my stance, drop my hip. “And then stop, pose, turn to the right, walk back to the left of the next model.”
When we face each other again, there is heat banked in his eyes. “Not sure I understand. I might need to watch you do that another hundred times.”
A giggle almost escapes, but I clamp my lips together and keep it trapped. Is he flirting with me? Shivers race over every inch of my skin at the possibility that he wants to do more of what we did last night in the design room. Although…if he likes me, wouldn’t he have held my hand during our walk? Or kissed me? Or told me bluntly that he’s interested in making me his girlfriend? He’s so blunt in manner, I can’t imagine him keeping anything to himself.
“You give it a try,” I say with a jerky motion. “I bet you’ll be great.”
There is something so magical about the two of us being alone in the early morning, our voices crystal clear against the sunrise. His boots fall heavily when he walks, his gait so loose and masculine, it reminds me of something. “Were you a bodyguard in a past life?”
He’s at the end of his imaginary runway now and he stops, the way a ship coasts to rest at a dock. The pose he chooses is to cross his arms, look mean, drop them to his sides and return to me at a casual pace, as if he didn’t just make me want to throw my panties into the Hudson. “Yeah I was,” he answers with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. “How did you know?”