Fast & Loose by Elizabeth Bevarly (best classic books to read txt) 📗

overall mood was comfortable metrosexual. Never in a million years would Bree have guessed this was the environment Rufus came home to at night.

As if the revelation had conjured him from her dreams—or, rather thoughts, she corrected herself, since she didn’t dream about Rufus—he suddenly appeared in the hallway on the other side of the living room, carrying a basket of laundry. He was wearing jeans, but no shoes or shirt, and when he turned to do what looked like closing a door behind himself, his bare back was to Bree. She was about to call out a greeting to let him know she was there, but her mouth went dry at the sight of that expanse of naked flesh. Never had she beheld a more beautiful vista than Rufus Detweiler’s back. Long and lean, taut and tanned, it was a masterpiece of muscle and sinew, bunching, relaxing, flexing…sculpting, molding, carving. There was no two ways about it—Rufus’s back belonged in the Louvre.

He turned toward the front door, and when he saw Bree standing there, he started badly enough that he dropped the basket of clothes. “Jeez, you scared the hell outta me,” he gasped, lifting one hand to the middle of his chest as if to ward off a heart attack, bracing the other against the doorjamb. The action clenched the muscles of his upper arm even more artistically than the muscles of his back, and Bree’s dry mouth was suddenly awash with enough moisture that she feared she would start drooling if she wasn’t careful.

“I, uh, I was just getting ready to ring the bell,” she said lamely.

He nodded, inhaled a deep breath, then bent to pick up the scattered laundry. Bree pulled open the screen door and let herself in, going straight to where he was stooped down, kneeling beside him to help.

“I’m really sorry,” she said as she reached for a stray sock. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “You just surprised me. I wasn’t expecting you for another fifteen minutes. I’m not even dressed yet.”

So she’d noticed. She started to tell him not to bother on her account, but checked herself. “I thought traffic would be worse this time of day,” she told him. “But I lucked out and got all the green lights.”

“Well, I hope you brought an appetite with you.”

She smiled. “Always.”

They finished gathering his things—including an intriguing pair of silk boxer shorts that Bree just knew a woman had given to him because men never bought silk boxer shorts for themselves. Especially ones that were decorated with lipstick kisses. What intrigued her more was that they were in his laundry, meaning he had actually worn them, and still did, even after he and the woman had clearly broken up. Did that mean he still cared about his ex? And why did Bree care if he did?

“They were a gift from my sister Camille,” he said.

At first Bree thought he’d read her mind. Again. Then she realized she was holding the silk boxers in a way that indicated she wasn’t planning to let go of them anytime soon.

“Oh,” she said quietly as Rufus plucked them from her hand.

“Camille’s always trying to fix me up,” he said. “She thought racy underwear would help nudge me in that direction.”

“And did it?”

He didn’t look at her as he began to fold them. “You know me, Bree. I’m saving myself for Ms. Right. My underwear hasn’t seen a lot of action for the last two years.”

She started to make some flip comment about how you could lose things if you didn’t use them, then the gist of what he’d said hit her. Like blunt force trauma to the back of the head. Was he saying he was saving himself for her? That he hadn’t had sex with anyone since meeting her? Oh, surely not.

“I’m sorry?” she said, certain she must have misunderstood.

Instead of replying, he only finished folding the boxers and carefully set them atop the rest of the laundry.

Bree, however, wasn’t willing to let it go that easily. “You’re not serious,” she said. “About the two years, I mean. That was just a joke, right?”

Rufus remained silent.

Unsure why she wanted to belabor the subject, she insisted, “You’re not telling me you haven’t had sex with anyone since you met me.” When he still said nothing, she added, halfheartedly, “Are you?”

He did finally look at her after that, but only for a second. Then he bent and picked up the laundry basket and started carrying it toward the stairs on the side of the living room that had been blocked from her view before. Bree followed him as far as the bottom step, then halted. Rufus continued blithely up to the top, but still didn’t say a word.

Two thoughts occurred to her at once, and she didn’t know which was more troubling. First, that by not answering in the negative, he’d pretty much indicated he was saying yes, he hadn’t had sex with anyone since meeting her. And second, he was going to be putting on a shirt.

Damn. And double damn.

Unable to help herself, Bree started up the stairs, too, pulling herself along the handrail until she hit the top, because her legs, for some weird reason, suddenly felt like Jell-O.

“Two years?” she called incredulously when she reached the top, uncertain which room he’d disappeared into. “You’ve gone two years without…you know?”

There was no answer from any of the three bedrooms off the hallway before her. Or from what looked like a bathroom, either.

“Rufus?” she called out.

“What?” his voice came from the farthest room.

“Can I come back there?”

“Sure.”

She started walking slowly down the hall, then hesitated again. “I mean, you’re decent, right?”

“Of course I’m decent,” he called back.

She took a few more slow steps, then halted at his bedroom door. He was standing with his back to her looking at two shirts lying flat on the bed, as if he were trying to decide which one to put on. Evidently he hadn’t decided on