Page 82 of When Ben Loved Jace

“Oh, I’ll be dreaming all right!” he says with a chuckle. “C’mon girl.”

Chinchilla rises with a grumble and lumbers out of bed. I watch them go. Then I grab the pillow Tim was sleeping on, turn it vertical to my body, and snuggle it close, breathing in his comfortingly familiar scent while slowly drifting off to sleep.

Chapter Nineteen

I’m not feeling so hot the next morning. My head throbs when I sit up and peer at the room around me. I almost expect to see posters of sleek cars and swimsuit models. Tim’s taste has gotten more refined since high school. The furnishings are classy and modern, although the stairs leading up to the bed are unusual. I assume those are for Chinchilla’s benefit. Art covers the surrounding walls, none of it his own. Not even the abstract painting he used to have hanging up. That bothers me, but at the moment, not as much as my sandpaper tongue. I get out of bed, surprised to discover that I’m naked. I quickly review blurry memories of the night before. We didn’t sleep together. I’m relieved, I guess, if only because I’d want to remember that clearly. Tim stopped me before anything could happen. In case I decided to get back together with Jace. As if I needed any more evidence that Tim is innocent… and that my ex-boyfriend is guilty. Is it fair to think of Jace in those terms now? My head is too groggy to reach any conclusions.

In the attached bathroom, I drink from the faucet and make use of the facilities. That gets me a little closer to feeling human again. I decide to take a shower, standing beneath the hot stream with my eyes closed until the tight knot leaves my neck. Then I smell Tim’s shampoo before using it and rub myself down with his body wash while thinking of the naked glimpses I caught last night.

I’m in much better shape after the shower. I put on the underwear I was wearing yesterday but don’t want to walk down the hall wearing only that. So I open dresser drawers, searching for a T-shirt, and let my hand delve beneath layers of clothes in search of sketchbooks. Sure enough, I find some. I can’t help but laugh. I decide to take one with me. I put on one of Tim’s shirts that actually has sleeves, which is of course baggy on me. Then I trace my steps back to the guest room, where the rest of yesterday’s outfit is neatly folded on top of a made bed. After shimmying into my shorts, I tuck the sketchbook under my waistband so it’s hidden and go downstairs.

Tim is in the kitchen, already showered and dressed.

“Good morning!” he says, getting up from the table.

“Hi,” I reply, already fighting the urge to smile.

Chinchilla rushes over in greeting.

“How are you doing?” Tim asks while assessing me.

“Not too bad.”

“Good! Do you drink coffee?”

“Oh god yes!”

“Have a seat. I was just about to make breakfast.”

The sketchbook presses against my back uncomfortably when I sit, but I don’t reveal it yet. I want to see his face. Not as a test or anything. I simply want to tease him about it.

Tim returns briefly to set a mug in front of me. Then he alternates between the stove and the refrigerator.

“When does Eric get back in town?” I ask.

“Not for a few days yet,” he replies while chopping. “It’s just me and you.”

He glances over his shoulder with a grin. I have the same reaction, because we were always at our best when it was just the two of us. Although… “I think you’re forgetting someone,” I say, nodding at his feet, where Chinchilla is looking exceedingly hopeful.

Tim laughs. “Maybe I should get a babysitter. She must really like you. I found her back in my bed when I got up. She usually follows me everywhere.”

“I didn’t notice, but it’s still nice. I didn’t want to sleep alone.”

Tim glances at me again, this time seeming conflicted. “You don’t make it easy to do the right thing.”

“I prefer to get results.”

He chuckles. “You almost got one last night.”

My body starts to react. In more than one way. The smell of fried onions is making me salivate. “I still can’t believe that you can cook.”

“A lot of things have changed,” he says, taking cutlery out of a drawer. He brings it to the table with a bottle of ketchup.

“But not everything,” I reply, revealing the sketchbook.

Tim stares. Then he shakes his head. “Obviously not. You still don’t respect anyone’s privacy.”

“Not yours, at least. Do you mind?”