Page 18 of The Allure of Ruins

He had chosen well for himself as apartments went.

There were high ceilings, windows that went from the floor to the roof, an open floor plan, shiny new stainless-steel appliances, quartz countertops, and a ridiculous number of cabinets for storage.

The bedrooms were both big, as were the bathrooms, he had a washer and dryer in his apartment, a heated spot in the garage that he was renting out at the moment, as he didn’t own a car himself, and most importantly, he could walk out his front door to the right, and in two blocks be at a grocery store, or take a left, and be at the Metro station.

I was wildly jealous, but still, it wasn’t a house, and I really wanted one of those.

Once he reminded me that my folded clothes went in the beautiful antique armoire in my room, he went to take a shower. I spent time doing as he’d directed, and then unpacked and filled up the guest bathroom with a myriad of products. I made sure to move the hamper to a better spot as well.

I took a shower after that, changed into flannel pajama bottoms, a long-sleeved T-shirt—I couldn’t handle the buttons on the top, it was a sensory issue—and heavy socks. I put his cardigan sweater on over that. I had stolen it six months ago and forgot I didn’t want him to see I had it.

Once I was standing in his living room, I went to the gas fireplace, flipped it on, and that fast, there were flames making the room so very cozy.

He didn’t like big overhead lights any more than I did, so I flipped off the track lights, and then walked around and turned on the individual lamps that were all on timers.

Now that I was there, I would get everything synced up so that, much like the fireplace, one switch would take care of everything.

I had brought my lemon balm tea with me, having stocked his kitchen with all my favorites years ago, except for that one. Once I filled and plugged in his electric kettle—it was quieter for later in the evening—I went to find him.

He had apparently gotten out of the shower and passed out on his bed in a towel.

“Colt,” I called out to him.

Nothing.

Walking in, I went to the small chest of drawers across from the large one that held his clothes, and pulled out a quilt.

I then returned to his bed, tugged on the towel until it came loose, and then quickly covered him up.

And yes, I would have liked to look my fill of the miles of golden skin stretched over hard, chiseled muscle, run my fingers through the dirty-blond mane, trace over his eyebrows and eyelashes with my fingertips, touch his nose and mostly…

kiss him. But I would never do anything without his permission.

And how would that work? How could that ever be something I would ask for?

As much as Colton was my person, it had been nearly a decade since anyone had touched me, or I had touched anyone else.

Lately, there had been flickerings of desire when I watched him move.

I had trouble tearing my eyes away from his forearms when he leaned over me at my desk, sleeves rolled up, telling me something that fluttered right out of my brain like a butterfly.

His hair on his shoulders, the way it curled, the different colors, and how soft it was when I tucked long pieces around his ears.

I was mesmerized by the muscles in his back moving under his shirt when he carried things, lifted or stacked boxes, and the vintage denim stretched over his thighs…

The other assistants were right. The man was beautifully and powerfully made, and the thought of being under him made it hard to breathe.

But there was also the fear that even if, somehow, we wound up in bed together, would I suddenly freeze?

Would my panic take over? And what could that ever be besides an experiment for him?

He was straight, and as much as he liked me, I could never be what he truly wanted or needed.

I had to realize that someday he’d find the one.

He’d find the woman who would become his wife.

I would need to be fine with that and with the resulting changes in my life.

I would need to be happy for him or lose him.

One was definitely worse. I had decided I would be content.

I would be her dear friend, and she would never know I coveted her husband.

Of course the dream was that this desire for more, even though I had no idea what precisely more could ever entail, would simply fade with time.

That would be best. Because then I could truly, in my heart, be pleased for him.

It was the height of selfishness to want to keep things as they were when I got everything from our relationship and he got nothing in return.

So instead of lying down on top of him like I wanted, instead of pressing my face to his nape and inhaling deeply, I turned off the lights, moved around the room, and put various items, socks, T-shirt, underwear, in the laundry hamper, hung up his coat, plugged in his phone, and then left quietly.

At the front door, I checked to see if the alarm was armed, which it was, then went and poured my tea.

The living room beckoned with the wooden floors, thick rugs, soft lights, and the desperately comfortable couch.

I curled up and watched the snow fall, seeing it collect on the balcony, on the covered furniture and the clay firepit he’d had shipped from Sedona the last time he was there.

It was strange to think that even though I knew Gen Antonov was somewhere in the city, closer than he’d been since I was nineteen years old, that I was sitting there, enjoying the fire, thinking about my friend.

Instead of being terrified of Gen, I was much more invested in figuring out what I was going to do when Colton Gates someday fell in love.