The Muse's Undoing

How is he not exhausted by my needy ass yet? Not that I’m complaining. “I have an iPad.”

“If you had a more comfortable couch, we might be able to make that work.”

I laugh again. “Want me to make another pillow fort? I thought the first one turned out pretty well.”

“I’d suggest the bed if you hadn’t defiled it last night.”

“Jesus, you’re ruthless. I can change the sheets.”

“What do you want to watch?” he asks.

“Game of Thrones.”

“That was easy.”

“I need it,” I tell him.

“All right. You find your iPad. I’ll change the sheets, and we’ll knock out as many episodes as it takes to chill out and go to sleep.”

He’s sleeping over? Maybe today isn’t a complete disaster after all.

He stands. “Point me in the direction of the clean sheets.”

I tell him about the linen closet in my bathroom, and he disappears. Gathering my iPad and glasses, I deposit them on my bedroom dresser as Matthew strips every stitch of bedding from the mattress.

“I’m guessing if we were at your place, you’d have to do the same thing,” I say, determined to make myself feel better about the booty call last night.

“I have a more comfortable couch.”

Shaking my head, I go to the kitchen to make myself a drink.

“Jesus, the pillows, too?” I ask, when I find him pulling off the pillowcases.

“I don’t need to smell your girlfriend’s hair.”

“Have you always been like this?” I ask, watching from the dresser. I’d offer to help, but I’d probably just slow him down.

He shoots me a frown. “Not wanting to lie down in the wet spot? Yes.”

I watch him without saying anything else, taking the chance to study all the ways he’s changed. He’s lost some of the fullness in his cheeks, making him look more like a man and not someone fresh out of puberty. He’s leaner than he used to be in general. Matthew’s never been the athletic type, but his natural build is more like a runner’s. Broad shoulders. Sleek muscles with zero bulk. He has a good ass, less pronounced than mine, but enough to fill out a pair of pants. Donna’s roots are Italian, and it shows in Matthew with his darker hair and his deep set eyes. I’m always told I look Australian, whatever that means.

The fact is I descend from West Germany on my biological mother’s side—probably Nazis, which is not something I advertise openly. According to 23 & Me, the only thing in me that isn’t white European is <1% Native American, which I would do almost anything to know more about.

Once Matthew’s got the sheets and pillowcases on, he picks up the duvet from the floor. “Is this safe?”

I shrug. Because no.

He rolls his eyes and tosses it back down. Kicking off his shoes, he walks over to the dresser, flings the iPad onto the bed like a frisbee, and grabs my drink to take to the nightstand.

“Do you want anything?” I ask.

“No, I’m good. Maybe later.”

I watch as he settles himself on the bed, pillows propped behind him. I walk over, figuring if I lie on my side next to him, I’ll get a decent view if he’s holding the screen. But then he bends his knees, spreads his legs, and pats the space between them. “You can hold the iPad.”

“Fair enough,” I say.

He lifts his brows.