Page 26 of Spark

RUBY

“ I didn’t know you like having flowers in your house,” I say, gesturing to the spray of orange tulips on Kendrick’s kitchen counter.

I’ve just entered his living room with my suitcase, after parting ways with him for a few hours after the airport to check on the status of my place and grab a few things.

“I got them for you. To welcome you here.” He smiles at my shocked reaction. “It’s no big deal. I always get my mom her favorite flowers, too, whenever she comes to visit me.”

“That’s so sweet. How did you know tulips are my favorites?” I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned that to him.

“On tour once, when you were feeling homesick, you stopped at a flower stand and bought yourself a huge bouquet of them for your hotel room.”

“I did? Which tour was that?”

“Our very first.”

“As openers?” I’m flabbergasted Kendrick remembers a meaningless detail like that, let alone from so long ago, especially when I don’t remember it myself.

He smirks. “You also sing ‘Tiptoe through the Tulips,’ whenever you get drunk, so tulips were a good bet, regardless.”

I giggle. “That’s one of the first songs my mom taught me on piano. Her mom taught it to her.”

“I know. You told me.”

Again, I’m surprised he remembers that detail. “What’s your mom’s favorite flower?”

“Hmm?”

“What do you get your mom, when she comes to visit?”

“Oh. Uh. Hmm. What’s the flower that smells really good?”

“Lilies, maybe?”

“Yep. That’s it. Lilies.”

Kendrick’s doorbell rings, and he looks toward the door with a look of surprise on his handsome face. “Nobody knows I’m back yet.”

“It’s probably the air mattress I ordered.” I hold up my phone, displaying the delivery notification that just popped onto its screen.

“Why’d you order that? My bed is plenty big enough for both of us.”

“Staying here with you is one thing. Staying here and sleeping in your bed, when we both know you’ve been dying to get home and sleep like a baby in your own bed, is a bridge too far.”

“Ruby, I slept like a baby with you last night, remember? You saved me from insomnia.”

“You said you don’t get insomnia when you’re home.”

“I did? Well, I mean, normally that’s true. But with that damned quarterback out there, who knows?”

“Okay, well, if you need some sleep therapy from me, you’ll know where to find me. But we should still set up the air mattress.”

We argue about it, until finally Kendrick says, “At least set the damned thing up next to my bed. That’s the only place with enough space for it. My other two bedrooms are filled with workout gear and recording equipment.”

“I really don’t want to invade your privacy.”

“It’ll be fun—like old times.”

I return his wistful smile. “I always loved our little slumber parties.”

“Me, too. Those were some really happy times for me.”

“Minus the part where you had crippling depression about your lifelong dreams being crushed.”

Kendrick snorts. “Yeah, that part sucked. But the rest was awesome.”

We share a chuckle.

“So, it’s settled, then?” he asks. “You’ll set up camp in my room?”

“If you insist.” I bat my eyelashes. “Now, would you be my hero and carry my air mattress into your bedroom for me? I think the box will be too heavy for me to pick up.”

“Oh my gosh, Kendrick. More tulips?”

We’re in his bedroom now. He’s putting down the large box containing my new air mattress, while I roll my suitcase into the room behind him—and, immediately, I’m flabbergasted by yet another, even bigger, bouquet of gorgeous, orange blooms. This one on his dresser.

“I just wanted you to feel at home,” he says casually. Is he blushing?

“Well, in that case, maybe you should have messed up the place a bit. You’re much neater than I’ll ever be.”

I’m expecting Kendrick to chuckle, but he doesn’t. He actually seems a bit stiff and nervous. He clears his throat and gestures to my suitcase. “I cleared out the top two drawers of my dresser for you.” Next, he motions to a walk-in closet. “And there’s half a rack in there for you, too.”

“That’s more than enough room. Thank you. I didn’t bring much, since I’m only staying for a week, and I can do laundry.”

We consider the placement of the air mattress and ultimately decide to set it up alongside Kendrick’s bed to maximize our ability to chat at night, like we used to do in my dorm room. And with that decision made, Kendrick gets to work, while I begin unpacking my suitcase.

It’s Kendrick who finishes his task first.

“I think I’ll get in a quick workout,” he says. “While you finish unpacking and getting settled. Cool?”

“Of course. And there’s no need to make it quick. Live your life, babe, like I’m not even here.”

“Well, what would be the point in that, when I’m so excited you’re here?” There’s that blush again. “I normally work out shirtless, by the way. I get super sweaty, so that cuts down on laundry. Okay with you?”

“Why wouldn’t it be? I’ve seen you shirtless a million times, KC.”

“I know, I just want you feeling comfortable in close quarters with me.” Without further ado, he slowly peels off his T-shirt, and, suddenly, at the sight of Kendrick’s bare torso mere feet away from me, I don’t feel quite as nonchalant about his half-nakedness, as I claimed a moment ago.

Indeed, standing here now, I’m feeling the unmistakable sensation of physical arousal at the sight of him. What’s wrong with me?

I wrench my eyes off Kendrick’s smooth, bare muscles and take a deep breath, feeling deeply annoyed with myself.

I’ve been to countless hotel pools with this man.

Sat in countless hot tubs and on sandy beaches around the world with him, too.

He’s shuffled past me, shirtless, on tour buses, on his way to the bathroom or the fridge in the back.

And not once, on any of those occasions, did my body react to Kendrick’s body the way it’s reacting now.

Is it that drunken kiss I can barely remember that’s wreaking havoc with me?

I don’t consciously remember the details of it, true, but perhaps my subconscious remembers it all too well—and now, it’s goading me on to do it again . . . .

“Let me know if you need anything, cutie.”

“Do your thing, hot stuff.” My chest tightens.

With his shirt off, while standing in his bedroom mere feet away from me, right next to his bed, and with that big palm of his is resting on his cut abs, which draws my attention to them, everything feels heated and charged.

Indeed, I’m feeling weird tingles I shouldn’t be feeling.

“Okay, well,” Kendrick says. “Lemme know if you need anything.” With that, he strides out of the room, leaving me to gawk at his graceful, muscular backside in motion as he goes—which, damn it, then provokes fleeting visions of that very same backside in a different kind of motion.

Namely, gyrating on top of a blonde on a couch.

A thudding sound from the next room jolts me from my memory. It’s the sound of heavy weights thudding to the ground.

I shake off the long-ago, illicit images in my head and return to my suitcase.

After a bit, I get to a small, purple bag—one that’s filled with all my nighttime stuff, like birth control pills, migraine meds, lip balm, lube, earbuds, and my vibrator, Bruno.

Obviously, I’ll need to wait for Kendrick to be out of his house to use Bruno while I’m staying here.

But whenever those rare opportunities arise, I’m sure I’ll want to have him, and the rest of this stuff, close by, rather than stowed away in the dresser.

I stride toward the nightstand to put the bag away.

But before I reach my destination, I remember Bruno probably needs to be charged.

I sit on the edge of the bed and pull Bruno out.

When I flip his switch, I get nothing. He’s dead as a doornail.

I put him down next to me and rummage around in the bag, quickly finding his charging cord.

After a quick scan for outlets, I notice a lamp on Kendrick’s nightstand that seems to be plugged in behind the furniture, so I formulate the plan to plug in Bruno back there, while discreetly placing him on the floor behind the nightstand.

But first, I open the drawer of the nightstand, intending to stow my little purple bag.

Whoa . Inside, there’s a variety of interesting items: condoms, lube, and soft handcuffs—the kind people use during kinky sex. All of it makes my eyebrows ride up and my heart rate increase. But none of it more so than the most exciting item in the drawer: Kendrick’s lyrics notebook.

My heart thrumming, I peek at the empty doorframe of Kendrick’s bedroom.

And when the coast is clear, I drop everything in my hands onto the bed next to Bruno, take the journal out of the drawer, and quickly start flipping pages in search of those raunchy lyrics for “Spank.” Granted, it’s a violation of Kendrick’s privacy for me to be doing this.

I know that. But on the other hand, he did tell me to treat this place as my home.

And when I’m home, nothing’s off limits to me.

Okay, yes, I’m playing mental gymnastics here.

But the truth is, I simply can’t resist.

I can’t find it. Did he tear it out?

“You little sneak!”

I look up, and two seconds later, a glistening, sweaty, half-naked Kendrick rips the journal out of my hands, the same way he did in that hotel room in Vancouver. Damn .

“Well, I guess that answers that question,” I deadpan. “You haven’t ripped out the ‘Spank’ pages.”

With the journal in one hand, Kendrick crosses his arms over his bare chest, and his tattooed biceps bulge. “You’re a bad girl, Ruby. A very bad girl.”

Meow. That was kind of hot, actually. “Such a bad girl,” I agree. “What are you going to do about it? Spank me?” I’ve meant it as a joke. A callback to what he wrote about in his journal. But the blush that overtakes Kendrick’s face makes me blush, as well.