“Could have been worse. You could have had to deal with this after only three hours’ sleep, and being woken up by some woman screaming at the top of her lungs,” he said, coming to sit on the arm of the couch.
I arched one eyebrow, and he recanted.
“Okay, bad example since that scenario is something you’re familiar with. What are you going to do now?”
“I dunno. I need to stay here and wait for the guy to fix this mess. In the meantime, I’m without water, which means no coffee, no shower, no nothing. Sucks,” I muttered, crossing my arms across my chest.
“Well, I guess I’ll be across the hall, drinking coffee and thinking about my shower, if you need anything,” he said, starting for the door.
“Ass, you are totally making me coffee.”
“Are you taking me up on the shower, too?”
“You won’t be in there with me, you know.”
“I guess you can take one anyway. Come on, you little cockblocker,” he huffed, pulling me up off the couch and leading me across the hall. Clive tossed one last angry cry at me from the bedroom, and I shushed him.
“Oops, wait. Let me grab breakfast.” I snatched a foil-wrapped package from the table.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Your zucchini bread.”
I swear he almost bit through his bottom lip. He must really like zucchini bread.
Thirty minutes later, I sat at Simon’s kitchen table, legs curled underneath me, drinking French-pressed coffee and towel-drying my hair. He seemed really relaxed and happy, and he’d devoured the entire loaf of zucchini bread. I barely managed half a slice before he took it away from me, the entire chunk disappearing in his mouth.
He pushed away from the table and groaned, patting his full belly.
“You want another loaf? I baked plenty, you little piggy.” I wrinkled my nose at him.
“I will take anything you want to give me, Nightie Girl. You have no idea how much I love homemade bread. No one’s made anything like this for me in years.” He winked and let out a tiny burp.
“Now that’s sexy.” I frowned and took my coffee cup into the living room, glancing out into the hallway to see if the maintenance guy had shown up yet.
Simon followed me in and sat down on his big, comfy couch. I wandered around, looking at all his pictures. He had a series of black and whites on one wall, several prints of the same woman on a beach. Hands, feet, tummy, shoulders, back, legs, toes, and finally one of just her face. She was gorgeous.
“This is beautiful. One of your harem?” I asked, looking back at him.
He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “Not every woman has made a trip to my bed, you know.”
“Sorry. I’m kidding. Where were these taken?” I asked, sitting down next to him.
“On a beach in Bora Bora. I was working on a travel photography series—the most beautiful beaches of the South Pacific, very retro styled. She was on the beach one day, local girl, and the light was perfect, so I asked if I could take some shots of her. They came out great.”
“She’s gorgeous,” I said, sipping my coffee.
“Yes,” he agreed with a sweet smile.
We sipped silently, being okay with being quiet.
“So what were you planning to do today?” he asked.
“You mean before my pipes revolted?”
“Yes, before the attack.” He smiled over the rim of his mug, blue eyes twinkling.
“I didn’t have a lot planned, actually, and that was a good thing. I was gonna go for a run, maybe sit outside and read this afternoon.” I sighed, feeling warm and comfortable and cozy. “What about you?”
“I was planning on sleeping the entire day before tackling a mountain of laundry.”
“You can go sleep, you know. I can wait in my own apartment.” I started to get up. Poor guy, he’d gotten in late, and I was keeping him from sleep.
But he waved me off and pointed to the couch. “I know better, though. If I sleep I’ll have jet lag all week. I need to get back on Pacific time as soon as I can, so it’s probably a good thing your pipes attacked.”
“Hmm, I guess. So how was Ireland? Good times?” I asked, settling back.
“I always have a good time when I’m traveling.”
“God, what an amazing job. I’d love to travel like that, living out of a suitcase, seeing the world, amazing…” I trailed off, looking around again at all the pictures. I spotted a slender shelf on the far wall with tiny bottles on it. “What’s that?” I asked, heading for the curious little shelf. They each contained what looked like sand. Some were white, some gray, some pink, and one was almost pitch black. They each had a label. As I looked I felt, rather than saw, him move behind me. His breath was warm in my ear.
“Every time I visit a new beach, I bring back a little sand—like a reminder of where I was, when I was there,” he answered, his voice low and wistful.
I looked more closely at the bottles and marveled over the names I saw: Harbour Island–Bahamas, Prince William Sound–Alaska, Punaluu–Hawaii, Vik–Iceland, Sanur–Fiji, Patura–Turkey, Galicia–Spain.
“And you’ve been all these places?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“And why bring back sand? Why not postcards, or better yet, the pictures you take? Isn’t that enough of a souvenir?” I turned to look at him.
“I take pictures because I love it, and it happens to be my job. But this? This is tangible, it’s tactile, it’s real. I can feel this, this is sand I was actually standing on, from every continent on the planet. It brings me back there, instantly,” he said, his eyes going all dreamy.
From any other guy, in any other setting, it would have been pure cheese. But from Simon? The guy had to be deep. Dammit.
My fingers continued to trail over all the bottles—almost more than I could count. My fingertips lingered on the few from Spain, and he noticed.
“Spain, huh?” he asked.
I turned to look at him. “Yep, Spain. Always wanted to go. I will someday.” I sighed and crossed back to the couch.
“Do you travel much?” he asked, sinking down next to me again.
“I try to go somewhere each year—not as fancy as you, or as frequent, but I try to take myself somewhere every year.”
“You and the girls?” He smiled.
“Sometimes, but the last few years I’ve enjoyed traveling by myself. There’s something nice about being able to set your own pace, go where you want, and not have to run it by a committee every time you want to go out for dinner, you know?”
“I get it. I’m just surprised,” he said, frowning slightly.
“Surprised that I’d want to travel alone? Are you kidding? It’s the best!” I cried.
“Hell, you’ll get no argument from me. I’m just surprised. Most people don’t like to travel alone—too overwhelming, too intimidating. And they think they’ll get lonely.”
“Do you ever get lonely?” I asked.
“She’s a solicitor—attorney—and one of her main clients lives here in San Francisco. Her business is based in London, but when we’re both in the same city, we make sure to see each other. And that’s it. That’s all she wrote.”
“That’s it? Three women, and that’s it. How do they not get jealous? How are they all okay with this? And don’t you want more? Don’t they want more?”
“For now, no. Everyone is getting exactly what they want, so it’s all good. And yes, they all know about each other, and since no one’s in love here, no one has any real expectations beyond friendship—with the best possible benefits. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I adore each of them, and love them in their own way. I’m a lucky guy. These women are amazing. But I’m too busy to date anyone for real, and most women don’t want to put up with a boyfriend who’s across the globe more often than home.”
“Yes, but not all women want the same thing. We don’t all want the picket fence.”
“Every woman I’ve ever dated has said she doesn’t, but then she does. And that’s cool—I get it—but with my schedule being so crazy, it got to be very difficult for me to be involved with anyone who needed me to be something I’m not.”