Page 19 of A Real Goode Time

I chuckled. “It means you, sir, are stoned.”

He nodded. “I guess I was expecting something more…nefarious. This is just…mellow.”

“Right? There’s a reason you never hear about a stoner getting in bar fights.”

I peered at the tip of the one-hitter, saw there was a bit of green left, so I finished it off with another partial hit. Tapped the ash loose, put the lighter and pipe in the pocket of Rhys’s sweatpants.

You wouldn’t think ratty old sweatpants and a threadbare T-shirt could make a girl feel sexy, but somehow…these did. The sweats fit like my tightest pair of yoga pants, form-fitting on my ass, hips, and thighs, and I hadn’t bothered with underwear since I was planning on taking Rhys up on his offer of laundering my clothes. No underwear, no bra—not that I ever wore a bra, anyway. I hated the damn things and wore them as infrequently as possible.

So, like, never.

The shirt fit about the same as the pants: tight, and it was see-through, and my areola were playing peekaboo—or should I say, peek-a-boob? I know he noticed—I’d caught him staring.

And liked it.

I had a weird, out of character, impulse to peel the shirt off and see what he did. I restrained the impulse, thank god, but it’d been a close one.

Max was the only guy who’d seen me naked since I was a little girl, and we tended to do our messing around in the dark with all the lights off, so I wasn’t sure he could even pick out my naked body in a lineup.

So why the hell was I even thinking about taking my shirt off for Rhys?

More to the point, why was I wondering what those huge rough hands would feel like? Why was I wondering if the grease would rub off on me?

Why, god, why, was I picturing his hands, black with engine grease, slicking all over my body in intimate ways Max had never dared touch me? I had a distinct vision of my naked body covered in handprints of grease and oil.

Gahhh. I wished I could blame it on the pot, but I’d been dealing with these images in my head since I took my sweatshirt off and Rhys’s eyes went straight to my breasts outlined beneath my wet T-shirt.

Also, you don’t hallucinate on pot, and I had no excuse other than plain old-fashioned horniness and sexual attraction.

Rhys was shifting, wiggling. “I gotta do…something.”

I laughed. “Figures you’d get even more motivated to do shit while stoned.”

He laughed. “I’m a go-go-go type of guy. As a kid, I was always moving. Even now, if I gotta sit still for some reason, my knee will start to bounce. Even mellowed out, I just gotta be doing something.”

I felt a yawn starting—it bubbled in the back of my throat, expanded to my chest, blossomed in my belly, and then burst up through me, forcing me into a decadent, muscle-quivering stretch; spine arched, head tipped back, arms lifted up over my head…

Shaking myself out of the yawn, I glanced over just in time to see Rhys watching me, eyes wide, mouth slightly ajar.

The sheer, blatant attraction on his face was like a fishing hook setting in my gut, digging in, latching onto my own attraction to him.

His eyes were fixed firmly on my little chesticles, such as they were. Even when I looked right at him, his gaze stayed there.

I arched an eyebrow. “Take picture—it’ll last longer.”

He blinked. “Oh. Um. Wait…really? Can I?”

I blinked back at him. “Ha, no, you can’t take a picture.”

He blinked again, even more slowly. “Oh. Okay. Damn. It’d be a hot picture.”

I gave him a look that was equal parts puzzled frown and flattered grin. “I’m wearing your old sweatpants and raggedy T-shirt.” I plucked at them. “Why do you even still have this, anyway? It barely fits me, there’s no way it’d fit your giant shoulders.”

He chuckled. “My shoulders are hardly giant, but thanks for the compliment.” Rhys rolled a shoulder. “I guess I’m a little sentimental. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I hated middle school, and I hated high school, and I couldn’t wait to leave town, but it’s still the town where I grew up. I didn’t bring anything with me when I left except clothes and money and a handful of auto mechanic manuals and some tools. That shirt just sort of represents…home.” A sigh, gruff and annoyed. “It’s complicated. It ain’t home anymore, but yet in a way it’ll always be home even if I never go back. Which I won’t.”

I yawned again. “Yeah, I think if I ever leave this area, that’s how I’ll feel.”

He blinked slowly at me. “Shirt looks helluva lot better on you than it did on me.”