Page 38 of It’s Only Love (Citrus Pines #1)
When she reached the top of the stairs there were four doors leading off the landing, she could hear the sound of running water coming from behind one of them.
Dean must be in the shower. She longed to join him, clearly she couldn’t get enough of him after all.
If she were his girlfriend, she could slip inside quietly, let the robe fall to the floor and step inside the steamy – argh! What was wrong with her?
She went to the first room on the right.
It was a spare room with just a bed, dresser and TV so she moved to the next one, opened the door, and stepped inside.
The room was brightly lit by the huge windows along the south wall, sunshine flooded in.
Dean was clearly a fan of natural lighting.
As she looked around, she realized this was his study.
There was a worn, wine-colored couch with a black throw casually draped over the back.
A bookcase was on the wall opposite and she went over, scouring the titles, intrigued to see what he had.
She found a mixture of crime novels, mainly Scandinavian authors, but a few American authors she recognized, ‘How-To’ guides on running a business, DIY books, and a couple of biographies.
She even spotted a sneaky romance here and there.
She ran her fingertips along the broken spines, some of them deeply cracked from multiple reads.
Next to the bookcase was a small filing cabinet and a rubber tree plant that looked a little neglected.
There was a map of the world mounted on the wall above with pins in a few countries, like he was marking where he had traveled.
Christy had never been out of the States herself.
She turned toward the wide window that had a wooden writing desk in front of it with a leather chair tucked underneath.
She could picture Dean sitting there going over his accounts and then getting distracted and looking out the window.
She ran her hands over the wooden desk, loving the feel of the grain beneath her fingertips, wanting to touch the things he touched, his possessions.
There was a computer, a small, wilted bonsai tree, a notepad with Iris Motors stamped across the top and a pen pot.
Beside this was a photo frame of Dean with his mother, Iris.
As she studied the photo, she could see that there were similarities between the two.
They had the same mischievous, sparkling blue eyes with matching dimples.
Christy looked out the window and gasped.
She was looking down over the back of the property which had another small, terraced area with a stone path that led to a large pond.
The pond had a miniature concrete water fountain in the center of it.
Small birds were lining up along it, dipping their heads under the streams running off the fountain, and flapping their little wings, enjoying their bath.
The pond had flowering lilies scattered across the calm water.
Behind the pond were two rows of orange and apple trees, with collections of both fruits dotting the ground surrounding them.
It was beautiful, so bright and colorful and alive with nature.
It was perfect and so evocative. She could imagine sitting at the desk and writing, looking out the window for inspiration and at that moment she wanted nothing more.
Her mind stirred with thoughts of her next novel.
The bubbling from the fountain, the birds singing, the sun shining, and the breeze ruffling the trees all sparked her creative instincts, flaring them to life.
Suddenly ideas bombarded her, thick and fast, too many to keep up with.
Like the dam of writer’s block had been cleared and the thoughts that had been mounting up rushed out.
She cried out in excitement and grabbed for the notepad and pen on the desk and began scribbling furiously, stopping now and then to ponder or watch the birds.
She didn’t know how long she was writing before she realized she wasn’t alone in the room.
She glanced up from her scribbling to see Dean leaning against the doorway, his arms folded across his chest. Her stomach clenched, God he was gorgeous , although he had an odd expression on his face.
Was he annoyed she snooped through his house?
“Oh, hi,” she said, feeling a little guilty at being caught in his study, pen and paper in hand.
“Hi yourself,” he replied smoothly.
“I didn’t mean to snoop. I was looking for you when I came in here, and then I looked out the window and needed to… Your house is lovely,” she finished lamely.
“I’m glad you think so.” He continued to stare at her in that way that made her feel very hot and aware of herself but left her with no idea what he was thinking.
She shifted uncomfortably on the spot. “Dean-”
“I thought I would drive you home, you must want to get some clean clothes on after last night.”
She watched him, studying his face for a sense of what he felt. Unable to work out if he was giving her the brush off or trying to muddle through the complexity of what they had done together.
“Yes, that would be nice, thank you.”
He nodded and stepped back to let her leave the room.
She glanced at the notepad in her hand and tore off her notes, folding them up and gripping them tightly in the palm of her hand.
As she walked past him, she caught a hint of his scent and had to stop herself from reaching for him.
She went downstairs and grabbed her clothes from the back of the chair by the fireplace.
Then took off his robe, laying it over the arm of the couch and put her dried clothes on.
When she was dressed, she found him in the kitchen looking out onto the terrace.
“Ready,” she said, and watched his shoulders tense, muscles bunching under his thin t-shirt. He nodded before striding across the kitchen, grabbing his keys from the island, and only flicking his eyes over her briefly before heading for the front door.
Her heart sank. Dean was giving her the brush off, which she had to remind herself was fine , because this was just casual. They couldn’t be together, she lived in another part of the country, and she didn't think she could ever trust someone enough to settle down anyway. It was better this way.
But she couldn’t deny it hurt a little to think last night was the best night of her life, and she would never experience it again.