Page 36 of The Accidental Dating Experiment
“I’m honestly not worried,” I say to Hazel.
An hour later, I’m dressed and searching for Monroe. You’d think finding someone in a two-bedroom, two-story home would be easy.
You’d be wrong.
He’s not in the work shed. Or the kitchen, or even the mirror room. I keep calling his name, my stomach churning each time. “Monroe? Mister Handy? Love Doctor?”
But there’s no answer.
I’m sure he’s on the premises, though, since I found a text after I got out of the shower saying simply, back.
The man is nothing if not concise.
I fluff out my hair, draw a deep breath, and head down to the garden level of the home where I turn into the poker room, with its late-night vibes even in the morning. The dark wood, the green felt, the wet bar, and the…
I stop in my tracks, adding a new item to the sexy vibes list: the man standing on a ladder screwing in a smoke detector with his back to me, giving me a perfect view of a round ass.
Has he always had such a great butt? It’s Butt Hall of Fame level. It’s the kind of firm you could bounce a quarter off. The kind you could grab and hold onto all night long.
A memory flashes—pulling him deeper, moving under him, tangling up with him.
I shake it off. “Monroe!”
Nothing.
He’s probably got AirPods in. It is ten in the morning on the dot. Is he listening to the top of the hour at full volume? Yeah, that’s so Monroe.
I weave around the ladder, giving him a wide berth since I don’t want to startle him while he’s up high, working a screwdriver and my fantasies. When he spots me, he reaches for his phone in his pocket and hits a button.
“Blasting NPR? Rocking out to Morning Edition?”
With a smug smile, he climbs down and shows me his phone. Oh. He was listening to…Nirvana. He says nothing, just smiles as if he’s delighted at surprising me.
This is more than surprise—I’m officially shocked. “But you said you didn’t like music?”
His smile widens victoriously. “I said I don’t like keeping up on it,” he points out.
I hold up a finger, rewinding to our chat in the car two days ago, then replaying it. Dammit. “That’s true,” I grumble.
“But see,” he adds, coming closer, “I don’t mind retro music. I don’t really have to keep up with anything when it comes to Nirvana.”
Is there no point he can’t turn to his advantage? His brain is unfairly big and diabolical. “You win.”
He holds my gaze for a few moments, his expression shifting slightly from triumphant to…vulnerable. “Also, you were right. It’s kind of sexy.”
“Is it?” I don’t know what else to say. I’m a little thrown. He’s listening to music after I compared it to sex. But is Nirvana sexy? I’m not so sure. “Sexy?” I add with a scratch in my voice.
“Well, the song is ‘Come As You Are,’” he says.
And what the hell did I come downstairs for? My brain has gone blank. My body has turned hot.
“Cool, cool,” I finally manage. But I still don’t know what I’m doing here other than thinking about sex and music.
After a few more beats of awkward silence, he says, “I’ve got a list of things we need to work on today,” he says, but his eyes look almost sad.
Then, he scratches his jaw—something he usually does when he’s thrown off too.
Oh. Wait. I’ve left him hanging. Maybe he’s waiting for my answer. Hoping I’ll say yes?