bachelor lifestyle, but Rhys didn’t believe it for a second.
Rhys knew part of the reason he felt compelled to settle down was because it was the one thing Marc had over him. In their parents’ eyes, he’d achieved the dream. Happy wife, two healthy kids...and Rhys was still lagging behind, as always.
But it was hard to have a relationship when he didn’t even put himself out there. He was just too busy with work to meet people.
“You don’t even know if Blondie’s single,” he muttered to himself as he started up the stairs.
But she hadn’t looked at him the way a woman in a committed relationship would when they’d almost bumped into one another earlier.
The pink blush that had crept into her cheeks had done crazy things to him. The kind of crazy things that were not so easily concealed in a pair of running shorts.
The fourth floor was deserted, and Rhys couldn’t stop himself from glancing at number 402 as he walked up to the door of his own apartment. Maybe he should formally introduce himself? It would be the neighborly thing to do.
He glanced down at his sweat-soaked tank and shorts. It might be the neighborly thing to do, but he wasn’t exactly going to make a great impression if he knocked on her door smelling like a locker room.
Tomorrow.
Satisfied that he’d committed himself to an action, he pushed open the door to his apartment with his free hand. Toeing off his sneakers, he hung his keys on their designated hook and placed the letters into the inbox he kept on the bureau near his desk. All except the blue envelope, which he tore open as he walked into the living area.
Inside the brightly decorated, homemade card—which looked like an insane craft teacher had thrown up all over it—were messages from his stepbrother and sister-in-law, his eldest niece and a proxy message from the little one. They’d even drawn on a paw print to represent the dog.
He put the card on his entertainment unit, next to his new fancy universal remote—the birthday present he’d gifted himself since his family didn’t really get his love of technology. The card looked totally out of place in what Marc jokingly referred to as “the computer nerd’s bachelor pad.”
By the time he reached the bathroom he was itching to get out of his workout clothes. He pulled off the soaked cotton. A light ache had spread through his muscles, a sign he’d pushed himself hard today and he’d need to spend some time on the foam roller to ease out the knots.
He’d been tighter than usual the last few weeks. Stress, his trainer had said. Lack of stretching, according to the remedial masseuse. Working too hard, his buddies at the security company admonished. But he knew it wasn’t any of those things.
Dissatisfaction. A lack of purpose. He’d felt it burrowing slowly under his skin, creating an incurable itch that niggled at him in the quiet portions of his day. In the dead of night. In the dark corners of his dreams.
He shook off the troubling thought and stepped under the running water, sighing as warmth seeped into him. As he lathered up, the scent of soap filled his nostrils. Perhaps it might be a good idea to put himself out there again. After all, his life couldn’t be all work and no play.
Tomorrow.
The promise rolled around in his mind, and just like that Blondie popped back into his head, soothing all his worries away. God, she was gorgeous. Fair skin and rich golden hair, bright blue eyes. And perky breasts that seemed to often be uninhibited by a bra. This morning he’d noticed the way the pert mounds moved beneath her white tank top, the stiff little peaks of her nipples pressing forward against the fabric.
He was hard as stone just thinking about it. He wondered if those nipples would be golden like the rest of her, or would they be rosy and pink? Would she have a dusting of hair between her legs or smooth, silky skin?
He’d gone way too long without sex and now all the carnal thoughts had piled up like traffic on a highway. But a knocking sound snapped him out of the fog of arousal. He rinsed off the last of the soap suds and shut off the water. Another sharp knock rang through the apartment.
“Hang on!” he called out as he wrapped a soft gray towel around his waist, knotting it to conceal the still-raging erection he was sporting.
His wet feet skidded on the floorboards as he hurried to the door. Who on earth would be dropping by without calling first?
Grasping the knob, he pulled the door open and was greeted with the very object of his fantasies. Blondie.
There she was in all her golden glory, long hair tangling around her shoulders and spilling down her body. Eyes wide and blue and bright. It wasn’t until he saw the wad of blood-soaked tissue in her hands that he realized something was wrong.
“UH...HI,” HE SAID, his eyes darting down to her hands and widening.
Crap. This was really not how Wren had imagined their first conversation would go. Especially not after Debbie had gotten the idea of having sex into her head. But he was topless, and boy, oh boy, had her dreams failed to do his body justice. His muscles had muscles of their own, and the gray towel he’d knotted at his waist hid very little. A spark of arousal flared low in her belly.
“You’re bleeding,” he said, his eyebrows crinkled.
“Oh yes. I, uh...cut myself.” A nervous laugh bubbled up in her throat but she pushed it down. No need to do anything else to convince him that she had a screw loose. “I don’t have any bandages in my house and I was wondering—”
“Of course. Come in.” He held the door and let it swing shut behind her. “Let me grab my first-aid kit.”
“Thank you.” Only then did the throbbing pain start to push through her giddy state. “I’m sorry I interrupted your shower. I should have thought to buy some bandages at the grocery store today.”
But, as usual, she’d gone without a list. Or without any idea of what she needed or wanted to buy. Wren usually let the ingredients inspire her as she shopped—allowing her to make up her dinner menu on the fly—and that meant that important purchases like bandages and antiseptic lotions were often forgotten.
He pulled a small white tin down from the top of his refrigerator and opened it up. The inside was neat and tidy, like a perfect Tetris arrangement of adulthood. Band-Aids, antiseptic wipes, burn lotion, cotton balls and gauze bandages all neatly packed in a way that made her feel slightly inadequate.
“Show me.” He held out his hand and she gingerly removed the wadded-up kitchen towel.
Blood immediately pooled in the slice along her palm, trailing along the crease in her skin and rushing toward the edge of her hand. She dabbed at it, but the paper was soaked through.
“Let’s get that hand under some running water.” He led her to the bathroom sink, her skin sparking at the comforting way he touched her arm. “You’ve done a number on yourself. Thankfully, it doesn’t look too deep. You shouldn’t need stitches.”
He held her hand under the running tap, the blood washing over her fingers and staining the water pink before it swirled down the drain. In the confines of the small room—which mirrored her own except for the simple gray shower curtain that hung in place of her own chaotic rainbow version—he was incredibly close. The scent of soap on his skin filled her nostrils and made her giddy.
“Are you okay?” he asked as he pulled her hand out from under the water to inspect the cut. “You’re not going to faint, are you?”
“No.” She shook her head. Thankfully, she could blame the wooziness on the blood—although the truth was it didn’t bother her in the slightest. She’d never been the squeamish sort. “I’m fine.”
Mr. 401 disappeared for a moment and returned with the necessary first-aid items.