Page 32 of His Old Lady

Chapter 11

Faye

Cupping her mug ofcoffee in her hands, she leaned against the counter, looking at Curley. He'd stayed overnight instead of leaving before she got up. That shouldn't have surprised her because he rarely listened to her.

What had surprised her was walking out of the bedroom and finding Curley sitting in the hallway as if he'd slept there all night. Finding him still in the house, her body betrayed her.

Even fifteen minutes later and fully awake now that she had some caffeine in her, she still vibrated from having him here.

How could he look sexy after spending the night in the hallway in his clothes, minus his boots, when she felt like a train-wreck fully dressed?

The rough night on the floor had deepened the lines at the corners of his eyes. He looked at her through heavy eyelids. She bit the inside of her lip. God, he looked as comfy as a soft, worn flannel shirt she wanted to slip into.

Except, she knew there was nothing soft about him. His broad chest stretched the front of his shirt. She lowered her gaze. Okay, there might be some softness on him. If she remembered right, his stomach, right above his belt, had fascinated her when they'd had sex. The light trail of hair down his abdomen had tickled her palm. She liked the way it felt, but she enjoyed his reaction more—his stomach had gone from soft to rock hard when she'd touched him.

But that was years ago. She swallowed. His body could've changed a little.

She sighed, catching the sound before it could escape her lips. No, his body hadn't changed.

He set his empty cup in the sink. "Did you change jobs because you need more money?"

Feeling flushed, she set down her mug. "If all I needed was money, I'd still be working at the lounge."

Bringing up her old job reminded her that Cal had stopped by in the middle of the night. That was something he hadn't done before. She figured quitting her job would stop the harassment.

"What gave you and your friends the idea to work in a topless bar, shoving your stuff in other men's faces?"

"We're women, Curley. Don't talk about us as if we're selling ourselves on the street. Kingston Bar doesn't sell sex, and I'm not shoving any part of myself at anyone." Her shoulders tensed. "Things changed at the lounge. We all quit, and when we couldn't get another serving job—thanks to you, Angela cracked a joke about working at a titty bar. I guess because I wasn't going at it alone, it seemed like something I could do with friends. The tips are good."

"What about the nursery? I thought that was your dream," he asked.

"It is."

"Then, concentrate on that job." He eyed her. "Unless you like the attention the men give you when you know damn well, all they're thinking about is shoving their dick between your breasts."

"I doubt that. There's nothing sexy about me. With or without a shirt." She walked out of the kitchen.

"That's a load of bullshit," muttered Curley.

Out of sight of him, her stomach fluttered, wanting to believe him. But she'd lived with the truth since she'd slept with Curley. For how much they were attracted to each other, he always stopped himself from acting on his feelings.

Because he rejected her, she knew exactly what men thought of her.

Whatever.

Other people disappointed her all the time.

Grabbing the dirty-clothes basket, she went into the laundry room and filled the washer, so when she got back, she could start the load.

There was no reason why she had to explain herself to Curley. He'd made his choice on not having her in his life long ago.

Shaking her hands to rid herself of the nerves leaving her shaking, she returned to the kitchen.

She turned on the faucet and wet the washcloth, wiping down the counters. "Don't you have something you need to do today?"

"I don't want you associated with Kingston Bar."

She turned to him. "Then, please, tell me what I can do? What's going to make you happy?"