"You are quite trusting, Juliette," I heard from the edge of the door. Theo was back, a duffel bag slung over his arms, leaning against the door frame like he did when I first met him. It should not be hot for someone to stand a certain way, but it's like everything this man does is a turn on.
But I am not attracted to him.
"And why would you say that?" I question, folding the last of the blankets. My mother stayed in the guest room, so i had to change the sheets and everything—not expecting occupancy this quickly.
He snickered, which forced me to turn, wanting to watch his lips curls in to a smirk as he stared at me. My cheeked flamed. "You let a random stranger stay the night in your house," he laughs.
"You're not a stranger," I simply reply. "You are my neighbor, we have met before which would not classify us as strangers." A smile replaces my embarrassed look.
His eyes stay still on mine, a subtle sparkle of coffee brown in his eyes. "So meeting someone once classifies them as being a friend?" He says, crossing his arms over his broad chest. Fuck, to know what it feels like to have my hand run down his chest, feeling every crevice it has. To explore it with my tongue, trailing kisses—
Fucking hell.
It is not ok to imagine stuff like that on someone whose name you just learned not even twenty minutes ago.
"I would not classify us as friends," I spit out not realizing the words that are escaping my lips, walking a little closer to him unknowingly.
With one swift movement, he banished the space between us, and was hovering over me. I had to look up slightly to be able to look into his eyes which turned dark. "Then what are we, Juliette?" He practically growled. I never thought I'd love the way someone would say my name.
"We. . ." I stutter or my words.
"Speak up, darling," he purrs. My stomach was doing summersaults with the way he was talking to me. A shiver was sent through my whole body. He had a deep voice in one to many octaves too low. It felt stereotypical for him to have such a deep voice, but I wasn't going to argue.
"We are neighbors-" I choke out finally forming the sentence. He smiled once, approving my volume and sentence, before walking around me, grabbing the duffle bag off the floor, then going to the bed. His actions were so swift, always intentional like he knew what he was doing with every sway of his body.
He walked back over to me, giving us a bit more room than before. "Good night, Juliette, and thank you for the room." I nodded, knowing my voice would betray me and every word that would fumble out of my mouth would not be good—because that smile was the most intoxicating drug, one I'd like to never stop taking.
I closed the door to his room, leaving a crack so I could say; "if you need anything, I am the room right next to yours."
>>><<<
Theo:
I woke up in probably the most comfortable bed I've
ever slept on. When my eyes opened, the sun wasn't even out yet. Usually, this was the time I would go for a run in the morning, eat breakfast, work on new designs and campaign for my social media, then go head to work extra early.
My routines and schedules were something I took to pride, staying on top of it as much as possible—another amazing perk of growing up in a military family. Thankfully, I brought my notebook so that was one routine I could stick to.
Checking the time, it was only 4 am, which meant I had a lot of extra time to doodle and work on my stuff. I posted sketches on my social media for people to use to get tattooed, hoping to get enough followers and recognition to open my own studio.
I sketched out an idea that was long enough to be a spine or sternum tattoo, a broken sword with flowers and vines wrapping around to fix it. Once I was done with a few more designs, it was almost 5:30.
I had a small crack in my door, keeping it open enough that I could hear if someone was awake. It was kind of awkward staying in a random persons house, even though Juliette made it clear that she was not reflecting the same emotions I was.
Suddenly, the muttered sound of a tv started playing from what I guessed to be the living room. Believing it was Juliette, I put on a random pair of sweats, and walked out of the room.
Instead of finding Juliette's perfect self, spread over the couch, it was the small child I saw the other day. Before I could retreat without her noticing me, she stood on the couch—in pink pajamas with golden crowns all over—looking at me. "Good morning," she says with more confidence and manners than any child I have met.
"Uh, good morning. . .Ophelia, correct?" I didn't want to butcher her name, feeling that she would slice my throat with one of those play knives she has in the toy kitchen. I was scratching the back of my neck, waiting for her to reply. She simply nods, before turning back to her tv.
"Mommy is going to be up in a little," she adds, not even looking at me as she keeps her attention to the tv. I didn't know what to do, if I should go back to the guest room or sit on one of the island chairs.
Instead, I sat at the farthest chair in her living room, now watching the kids show that Ophelia's attention was focused on. "Are you one of mommy's midnight friends? Is that why you're here?" She asks, breaking the silence between us.
My face immediately flushed. Usually, I have more confidence than this. I'd have snarky comments and things to say, but it is hard to use that shit on a toddler. "Midnight friends?" I retort her words, confused on if I should have a good or bad connotation to that phrase.
"Yeah," she blurts. "She brings them over at night, usually when she thinks I'm sleeping and when Ellie leaves."
"Who is Ellie?" I ask, not even realizing how invested into Juliette's midnight friend life—which I am beginning to believe is her hookups.
"My babysitter!" Ophelia whisper yells, somewhat mad I wasn't keeping up. "So are you one of them? Because usually mommy looks nicer before she sees them—spending hours in the shower and her bathroom doing her makeup and stuff."
I had to bite my lip to hold back the laugh that wanted to burst through my smile. Covering my mouth to not have her see my smile. "I thought your mommy looked very nice yesterday," I tell her, not realizing how nurturing my voice became. But my smirk and thoughts were nothing close to innocent or nurturing.
My mind was brought back to the tight yoga pants that Juliette was wearing yesterday, the ones she seems to not get enough of. Along with the puffer jacket that when she took off showed the tight base layer top she wore underneath. Giving me the perfect outline of her breast—and fuck I'm thinking of this girls breast.
"Ehh," she shrugged, which made it even harder to hold back my laughter. "Want to watch a movie with me? Mommy says I can only watch movies with adults," she beams in happiness when she asks the question. I feel like there is something deeper to the question that I don't want to know.
No child should be that happy to watch a movie—even if it's like Frozen or something stupid like that. "Um sure, I guess I am an adult." I mentally slapped myself, what the fuck is wrong with myself. Most kids I hate, actually all kids in general. It is very rare when I don't pretty much hate someone. Everyone is simply annoying, idiots who forgot what common sense was. But this child was weirdly different and enjoyable. And she made me act and talk like an awkward teenager.
"Ok!" She practically shouts, it is way to early to be shouting but I don't correct her volume. I stayed stiff in the chair as she changed the channel with such ease. I didn't even know how a tv worked until I was at least seven.
She put on a movie, which I recognized as Inglorious Bastards. "Oh my fucking god!" I curse a little too loud, praying she didn't hear me, as I practically jumping out of the chair and turning off the tv.
"Why did you do that!" She whined and pouted as I turned the tv back on, before changed the channel to some random baby show. Good, something that wasn't that movie.
"Because you are like a fetus, you should not be watching a guy getting shot in the head!" I scold, retracting my earlier statement, this child is extremely weird.
Her lips begin to quiver, and I have never been good with kids—or around them much for that matter—but I know when a child is about to cry. And right now was that moment. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," I curse, this time keeping it quite so she doesn't hear. I hover over her, not sure how to react.
I look around, maybe finding something that will calm her—like a stuffed animal or blanket. That's when the tears begin to wail, and I panic. Frantic looking around is not hot, but right now the last thing I need is to look hot—all I need is this child to not cry after knowing her for barely a day.
Then it hits me. Drawing, she has colors and makers all over the table, but she has no paper. "You like coloring, right," I burst out, bubbling with inspiration, and some happiness that I didn't expect to have when she looks up—sniffing away some tears—giving me the slightest nod.
"Here," I say, propping myself down next to her, lifting up my shirt sleeve, revealing the many tattoos around my arm. She didn't have any paper to draw on, so I picked up a few markers, dropping them in her lap. She looked at me once, then grabbed the purple marker and went for the skull tattoo I had on my upper arm.
I did not just let a kid draw on my arm with a purple marker. Where has my life gone, I shook my head. She was too happy and finally not crying, for me to care. All I could do is watch the colorful screen that had the kids show, thankful it was anything but Inglorious Bastards.