Midnight Muse

A few swipes of mascara and blush later, I’m running to the door, flipping the lock so Reid can let himself in when he arrives. I’ve forewarned him about the blasted elevator and he laughed at the time, but he’ll find out soon just how dreaded it is.

It will give me a few extra minutes to work with, and I send a quick prayer that he does decide to take it.

Setting a pot of water on the stove for pasta, I slide over to the cabinets, pulling out the ingredients I need. A cutting board, knife, garlic, and onion follow. Slowing down so as not to cut my fingers, I chop the onion and slide it into the skillet with some butter. The sizzle fills the otherwise quiet apartment, and it’s now that I realize Knox’s music has stopped playing while I was napping.

I toss in the freshly chopped garlic after a few minutes, along with salt and pepper. My stomach growls as the savory aroma begins to fill the air.

Of course, just when everything seems to be going well, it all starts taking a turn.

Puncturing the tube of tomato paste, I go to squeeze it into the pan and it explodes all over my shirt.

Fucking fuck.

“Why wouldn’t it fucking explode,” I growl, lowering the flame as I carelessly wipe at the mess on my shirt. It’s already ruined, and there’s no saving it, unless I ask my father for another YouTube video, so what do I care? Abandoning the red-smeared paper towel, I shove the shirt up and over my head as I aim for the laundry, careful not to get any remnants of the red paste on my face. Thankfully, I have a fresh load of clean laundry in the dryer from yesterday.

In my haste to shove my dirty shirt into the washing machine, I don’t hear the door creaking open until I slam the washer shut and raise my hand to get to the dryer. Someone’s whistle makes me jump.

Not someone. Someones. As in, Knox and Slate, standing wide-eyed in the door as they stare at me, shirtless.

I freeze like a goddamn deer in headlights, gawking right back at them. My heart thumps heavily in my chest as I watch Knox’s jade eyes shift darker as they raze down the length of my body in a motion that burns me all the way through.

Something between my legs tingles and I like it entirely too much.

Slate, of course, is the first to break the charged silence. “Don’t stop on our account.”

It snaps me right the hell out of my staring contest with Knox, my cheeks feel like they’re as red as the tomato paste.

“Oh my God! What the fuck are you doing here?” I shriek, scrambling for the dryer. Yep, I’ve gone full into freaking out mode. Great.

The door to the machine gives easily and I snatch the first thing I come in contact with. Thankfully, it’s another t-shirt and there are no cringey graphics or an excess amount of fabric involved. I turn my back on Knox and Slate as I shove it on hastily before spinning back to them and pinning them both with a harsh glare that rivals my mother’s whenever she is angry with me.

Knox still hasn’t said a word. His grip on the doorknob is white-knuckled and he doesn’t look like he could speak right now if he tried. It kind of makes me feel giddy. He’s much too focused on holding my gaze.

Slate’s hands find the air quickly in a display of surrender, almost as fast as the words fumble from his mouth. “We thought it was our apartment, honest! We didn’t mean to walk in on you like that.”

I groan, slapping a hand to my forehead. It makes my head ring a little in the aftermath of my hangover and I grimace. I’m officially embarrassed. “Just get out, please.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Slate responds, quickly grabbing Knox and shoving him back into the hall. On his way to slam the door shut behind them, Slate pops his head back inside with a final comment. “Oh, one last thing. There’s a pair of panties stuck to your shirt, Quinnie. Nice ones, by the way. Great color.”

He ducks out of the apartment before I can throw the nearest thing I can find at him.

Sighing and completely mortified over what just happened, I pluck the scarlet, lace panties clinging to my shirt and shove them into the front pocket of my jeans.

My concoction on the stove pops, drawing my attention.

“Fuck me, truly,” I sigh, snagging the bottle of vodka off of the counter on my way back to the stove. If I add more alcohol than I should to my sauce, no one needs to know.

And if I take a shot to try and burn away the feeling of Knox’s eyes on my body, no one needs to know that, either.

CHAPTER 12

KNOX

Fuck me.

I want to shove the tip of my pencil through the paper when I fuck up my drawing once again.

It’s not because of my shaky hands or the fact that I can hear Quinn giggling through the wall with Reid, who Slate and I had conveniently run into after falling back into the hallway following the incident of catching her unaware while she was half naked.