I Will Set Your Valentine On Fire

Chapter Five: Get A Grip!

Myra

I’ve always had trouble sleeping. My consultancy firm required me to travel often. That meant strange beds in strange hotels in strange cities, and the only relief from a lifetime of insomnia was a prescription bottle of sleeping pills.

They forced my over-active, hyper-vigilant brain to sleep, but they also made mornings especially difficult and unpleasant. I usually scheduled my first meetings in the morning for 10:00 am or later to give me plenty of time to get over the groggy, hung-over effect of the sleeping pills.

To say I was not a morning person was a gross understatement.

It was still dark outside when I was jerked awake by an obnoxious alarm. I was sprawled face down on the old, sagging mattress, wearing my ultra-sexy pajamas: an oversized sweatshirt and a pair of raggedy yoga pants. It took my drug-addled brain a minute to put together the pieces of the last twenty-four hours, and to place the familiar surroundings. I could see the streetlight glowing outside the blinds of the bedroom’s only window. The old dresser with its antique mirror was reflecting the dull yellow light, casting eerie shadows around the small room.

Dottie’s Place. The apartment. And the obnoxious alarm that had been hastily silenced in the living room, must be Tony's.

I fumbled for my phone, and groaned when I saw the time. 4:30AM. I flopped back onto the pillows, and closed my eyes, praying to fall back into a deep, dreamless sleep.

But Tony was a big man. The apartment was small, and the building was old. And every noise, every movement, seemed amplified. First the old sofa bed squeaked and groaned as he stood, and folded the bed back into place under the cushions. I thought that would be the end of it, but then the floorboards creaked as the two-hundred and thirty pound giant tried to move quietly through the small space. There was a bang and a quiet cuss, as I imagined he had just kicked his shin into the coffee table.

I swore too, and pressed the pillow over my head.

But it wasn’t enough to block out the sound of the old pipes knocking and moaning as he twisted on the shower and waited for the hot water to make its way up to the second story.

Then there was the sound of the water spraying against the tiles and the glass door. Unbidden, I imagined what he must look like naked. Bulging muscles, tattoos, narrow hips, powerful thighs…

“Oh my God, Myra!” I growled out loud. “Get a grip!”

Anthony Kent was absolutely the last man I wanted to entertain lewd fantasies about!

The sound of the water had a secondary effect. It made me have to pee. The more I tried to ignore it, the more urgent the need became. I waited until I heard the water stop, and then I threw back the blankets, stood on my bare feet, and stalked my way out to the common area.

Tony had only switched on one light, and it illuminated the apartment softly, like it was also conscious of the ungodly hour.

Just then, the bathroom door opened with a billow of steam, and Anthony Kent stepped out. His long, damp hair had been slicked back into a pony-tail, his square jaw had been freshly shaved, and he smelled like peppermint and spice and warm male essence.

He was also completely naked, except for the too-small bath towel wrapped around his waist.

My shower fantasy really hadn’t done him justice. My mouth watered, and I was suddenly intensely aware of my morning breath.

He gave me a rueful smile. “Sorry to wake you,” he said softly. Strange how a man so big could speak in such a gentle tone.

I only grunted in reply, and tried not to stare at his tattoos as I skirted around him and let myself in the steamy bathroom. I shut the door with a bang to punctuate my displeasure.

I took my time, not only relieving my bladder, but also brushing my teeth, washing my face, and untangling the rat's nest that was my hair. I wanted to make sure that Tony had plenty of time to get dressed before I had to face him again.

I cracked open the door. Satisfied that he was now clad in jeans and a deep purple polo shirt, I opened the door fully and stepped out to the smell of coffee and caramel. To my surprise, Tony handed me a ready-made mug, and offered me a charmingly boyish smile. “Not as good as the stuff downstairs,” he said apologetically. “But, it helps jump-start the day.”

I accepted the ceramic mug and watched mutely as he grabbed a clean apron and his winter coat, and quietly let himself out the door.

However, there was nothing quiet about his big feet clumping down the wooden steps. When it was finally quiet, I looked down at the cup in my hand.

World’s Best Tutor

My hand shook slightly, sloshing hot coffee on my fingers. I rushed to set the cup down on the counter.

Had he chosen that cup on purpose? Was he mocking me? How could that cup still be kicking around this apartment after ten years? It was the mug Tony had bought me the first Christmas after I had started tutoring him in high school. He had been just fifteen then, and I was seventeen. Back then, I thought of him as an annoying, but sometimes sweet, kid brother.

Oh, how wrong I was.