Scott arrives home at eleven the next morning and immediately jumps in the shower. Fifteen minutes later, he finds his way to the kitchen, as I’m making brunch.
“Rachel called for you, again, last night,” I tell him as I try to unpurse my lips.
“Uh. Did she?” He at least has the decency to look guilty about messing her around.
“Yes,” I reply, coldly.
Scott is wearing a pair of cargo pants and a pink T-Shirt. Nothing special, yet he manages to look impossibly sexy. I haven’t got my head around that idea yet. Scott being sexy, I mean. Scott looking half decent used to be a difficult enough concept. Every morning, I expect him to emerge looking like he used to; as if he stepped out of a Time Machine, all monstrous clothing and mad hair.
Instead, his clothes enhance a physique to whic
