Project Produce(81)

He ran his finger down my bare arm, then lifted his heavy-lidded gaze to mine. “What’s wrong with this place?”

“Nothing, it’s just a total bachelor’s pad, you know what I mean?”

His finger stilled. “So redecorate. I’m not tied to anything but that hammock.” He grinned, then puckered up and gave me a fish kiss.

“Cute. But what if you don’t like my taste?”

He stared at my lips. “Oh, I like your taste just fine.”

“Dylan, I’m serious.”

“Okay.” He grinned. “I liked the things you pointed out in the store the other day. Besides, you said you decorated your parents’ store, so you have some experience, right? I was thinking about hiring someone anyway, so why not you?”

“Well, I do have a bit of experience, and I suppose I’ve sort of gotten to know what you like... oh, never mind. It’s a stupid idea.” I rolled the other way and got out of bed, then headed for the closet. Decorating his apartment somehow didn’t feel temporary. I pulled on my jeans and sweater with my back to him.

His arms snaked around me, and he kissed the side of my neck, cutting off my speech. “It’s not a stupid idea, Mac. You probably know me better than anyone.”

“Really?” I paused for a minute, then leaned my head back and closed my eyes, enjoying the feel of his arms around me. “I mean, not the part about knowing you better than anyone, but about the redecorating.”

“Yes to both.” He chuckled against the top of my head. “And you can start by getting us a couch. I’m tired of watching TV on the floor.”

“Hey, you didn’t have to sit on the floor with me,” I said with my eyes still closed, feeling his heart beat against my back and letting the musky scent that was pure Dylan engulf my senses. “But I’m sure as heck not sitting my big ole butt in that excuse for a hammock again, I’ll tell you that.”

“Your butt’s not big, it’s perfect.” He swatted me on the fanny, and my eyes popped open. Then he stepped away and gathered some clothes out of the closet, speaking as he pulled them on. “Why don’t you start today? I should be home by dinner.” He grabbed his wallet off of his dresser and pulled out a credit card. “Get whatever you need.”

I paused again. This felt really weird, like “married” weird. We already lived together, shopped together, ate together, bathed together, slept together, did just about everything together except share a checking account and a last name. And now he was letting me use his credit card. “You’re serious?”

“Why not?” He shrugged. “I trust you.”

God, he was going to hate me. He was going to think I was just like his ex-fiancée Tina. He’d lied to me, but he’d done so for my own good. Whereas, I’d lied for purely selfish reasons. But I wasn’t just using him for research.

I truly cared about him, though I doubted he’d see it that way. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t have to find out about my project. The semester was almost over. And I was only using his credit card to buy his furniture, for his apartment. Nothing for me. It wasn’t like he’d said, “If you see anything you want for yourself, just add it to my bill.” So why did I feel guilty?

I took a deep breath. “Okay, I’ll do it. But you don’t have to pay me, okay?”

“Okay. I’ll thank you in other ways.” He winked, then kissed me on the nose. “Gotta run.” He turned and headed for the living room, and I followed, feeling slightly less guilty. “Oh, by the way. If you see anything you want, feel free to put it on my card.” He smiled, then he walked out the door, leaving me gaping like a flounder.

Oh, yeah. He was gonna hate me.

***

At the end of the week, I sat on Dylan’s brand-new, plush black leather couch, situated beside an overstuffed matching black leather recliner, and studied the ultra-modern room. Okay, so I’d gone a little wild, but he’d said he had a bit put away, so to go for it.

Well, I did, and then some.

I’d been buying black and white furniture, funky glass and marble tables, a few cool lamps, and splashes of color in modern art all week, but storing the items amongst the Brat Pack. I didn’t want Dylan to see the room until I finished. I’d spent all yesterday painting the walls and putting up a mural, and then today moving the furniture in since he’d been gone on a twenty-four-hour stakeout.

Now that he was due home at any minute, I was scared senseless. I’d made a big crock of homemade spicy mac and cheese with fancy noodles and imported mozzarella, cheddar, and jalapeño. Accompanied by a tossed salad with Mediterranean feta and a loaf of soft French bread. And to top it off, a pitcher of Bahama Mamas sat chilling in the fridge, and salsa music poured out of his brand new sound system in the background.