Asking for Trouble - Leslie Kelly [41]
But—and this is the ironic part—something has changed. I am now living under the same roof with a dark, sexy, mysterious stranger. And the me-so-horny-me-love-you-longtime lust I’d been experiencing since, well, forever, has sort of been replaced by something else.
I’m worried about him.
I hadn’t liked seeing him standing silhouetted against the early morning sky today at the edge of those cliffs. Now that I know his uncle had died there, I especially didn’t like it.
He thought I’d been out jogging or something. Ha. Me. Jogging. The only reason I’d jog is if it was five minutes before closing time at the supermarket and I’d run out of Ben & Jerry’s.
In actuality, I’d heard him leave. I’d slept like crap so I was wide-awake early this morning when I heard the front door to the building slam shut. Peeking out the window of my third-floor room—the still freezing one, by the way—I saw him striding across the lawn and just had the impulse to follow him. I’d already been dressed, wearing the sweats I’d slept in—cold room, remember? I’d totally given up on the idea that he’d stumble into my room by mistake so I’d ditched the filmy white nightgown my second night in the place. So I’d just yanked on my sneakers, and, of course, a bra, and had taken off after him, practically racing out of the house.
Like something bad would happen to him if I didn’t get there fast enough.
How weird was that? To be so protective of a man who, despite his leanness, was muscular enough that he could probably break me in half? Why did I want to wrap my arms around him and tell him he wasn’t alone, rather than stripping naked and begging him to do me?
Well, okay, I still wanted to do that, too. Fortunately, I guess the two aren’t mutually exclusive. Nothing said I couldn’t be naked when I wrapped my arms around him and told him he wasn’t alone, did it?
But right now, I couldn’t say what I wanted more. As much as I longed for him—especially after that deep, languorous kiss we’d exchanged outside the attic door yesterday and the more frenzied, passionate one today—I wanted to help him, too.
I wanted him to confide in me. I wanted him to trust me. I wanted him to unburden himself to me.
And I wanted him to make love to me.
“This can’t go on,” I whispered that afternoon as I finished typing some notes into my laptop. I’d been working all morning in the attic, running to the top of the stairs, to peer down and make sure the door was still open. But, getting hungry, I decided to go downstairs for lunch, detouring to my room to make some notes first.
Fortunately, Simon had a wireless Internet network set up in the house and I was able to hop onto it to send some of my findings to Professor Tyler right away. When I’d realized the network was completely unprotected, with no firewall at all, I’d given Simon a hard time about it. But I hadn’t been able to deny the truth he’d pointed out: who around here was going to hack in to it?
He was right. But considering some of the weird stuff that happened in this place, I personally thought he should be a little more careful. No, I hadn’t seen any white filmy ghosts floating around, and I hadn’t been locked in the attic again. Still, one or two times I’d found myself listening intently, certain I’d heard the sound of a woman’s laughter coming from somewhere else on the third floor. And today, when I’d come back to my room to type my notes, I’d found my bed made. Perfectly made. Like quarter-bouncing perfect, as if the room were completely unoccupied.
Now, I’m not a total pig, but I’m not exactly a neatnik, either. I had felt nearly certain that I hadn’t made the bed this morning.
Laughing as I told myself the ghost of a former maid must have done it, I still made a point of locking my door when I left. Silly, I know, but I had to do it. This house was huge—somebody could slip in here and pick up anything they liked. My laptop, for instance,