Free Lead by Kylie Scott Page A

décor within. It basically looked like a post-modernist had thrown up in here and the decorator decided to call it a day. As if a splash of color would kill anyone. I was half-tempted to start buying obnoxiously bright rainbow-colored accessories, cushions, and a vase or two, and leave them around the house in protest just to see what he’d do.
    “You
are
looking at me weird all the time.”
    “No, I’m sorting your email. A different thing entirely.” I pried my gaze off his hot (in every sense of the word) body and returned it to the laptop. “Oh, look. Lingerie Girl has sent you another picture. A demi-bra this time, hot pink with tassels. I think the tassels are a nice touch. She’s even attached a video of her making them swing. Such a thoughtful girl.”
    “Delete it.”
    “But what if she says something important?”
    “She’s a complete stranger sending me pictures of herself nearly naked dancing and bending over furniture.”
    I hummed. “Yes, today we have a washing machine. Very sexy in a domestic erotica sort of way. A powerful statement about feminism, I think. This woman is deep.”
    “Right.” He resumed his exercising. “This woman is not gonna say anything I need to hear.”
    Outside, a bolt of lightning lit up the sky, making me jump. The crash of thunder came next.
    “That was close.” I watched him carry on regardless of nature’s showing off. “Some of your fans are loco. Luckily, others are just delightful.”
    A grunt.
    The problem with the push-up lay within the way it pretty much mimicked the act of sex. (Lay. Heh.) All the sweating, straining, and up and down of the pelvic region. It was disgusting, shouldn’t be allowed. Also, I really needed to get laid or find someone willing to hold hands with me at the very least. Maybe I’d reached the limits of physical depravation and I was touch starved. God, I hoped that was all. Him holding me before the funeral had awakened certain needs I sadly couldn’t meet on my own. Nor was spending more time with him helping. We’d pretty much fallen into a habit of hanging out together each night, debating who got to choose what we’d watch.
    It was nice. Too nice.
    Last night when I’d wandered into the living room he’d actually almost smiled and shifted about in his corner of the couch. Like he’d been waiting on me or something, anticipating my arrival. I had to be reading the signals wrong. I’d given him a clumsy grin, sat down, and endured a quarter of football before my wits returned, I’d been so surprised. Even if I was wrong, it might just be time to break the ban on men, sex, and romance. Or at least with regards to the men and sex parts. I couldn’t keep mooning after Jimmy like a smitten teenager. Problem was, time spent with him just soothed something in me. Some need for companionship or a yearning for the friends I’d left behind when I’d decided to head out into the big bad world a few years back. When everything had gone to shit.
    If only he wasn’t so nice to perv on. I crossed my legs, squeezing my thighs together. Sweat darkened the thin cotton of his shirt and the material stuck to him outlining each and every muscle. Man, he had a lot of them, his arms for instance …
    “Lena!”
    “What?”
    “Stop it.”
    My mouth slammed shut.
    “You’re watching me all the time and it’s fucking creepy. I can’t take it anymore.”
    Oh God, he was right.
    I watched him constantly, I couldn’t help myself. And when I couldn’t watch him, I thought about him. Mostly about how I didn’t want to feel anything for him, but it still counted. I was losing it. Actually, I’d already lost it back in Coeur d’Alene to be brutally honest. My stupid heart stuttered as if to second the sentiment. All the sappy feelings for him in me were growing by the day, squeezing out every last vestige of common sense.
    This couldn’t continue.
    I could not go through this again.
    “I have to go,” I muttered. The thought of