Tease Me. Dawn Atkins

receipts. The kid hung with some malevolent-looking guys, more than one of whom Jackson had eighty-sixed for getting grabby with the girls.

      The night flew by, business was brisk and he even spun some tunes. Got some praise from a guy from L.A.—PR flak for a record studio—on the mix of retro punk that went well with the night’s dancers and their routines.

      At 2:00 a.m., he locked up and headed out. He loved the drive home. Top down, middle-of-the-night quiet, warm air wicking the sweat from his skin. This time of night, he owned the streets.

      He reached his place and pulled into the garage, filled with that comfortable peace he always got. He would listen to some music, then hit the sack.

      Except he had company. Heidi. Yeah. He got a charge of anticipation, which he squashed flat. She was off-limits. That annoyed him and made him tense. Dammit. He needed to unwind at home, not hold his breath and tiptoe around not thinking about cuddling up to all that sunshine and sweetness.

      At least this was only a temporary interruption of his peaceful life. He grabbed the sack of clothes from Autumn and cosmetics from Nevada and headed for the door, braced for the smell of cleanser and lemon oil, since Heidi had been cleaning like a fiend.

      Instead he got the sweet aroma of something baked—fruit and pastry. By the stove light Heidi had left on for him, he saw there was a pie on the counter. Cinnamon-streaked peaches oozed from holes in the center. She’d baked him a pie?

      Eager saliva flooded his mouth and he felt ravenous, with that hand-rubbing delight he used to get sliding up to his mom’s holiday table. He grabbed the pie knife she’d set out—he didn’t know he had one of those—cut a piece and took a huge bite, not even sitting down. Sweet peaches exploded against his palate and the crust melted like butter. It was so good he had to shut his eyes.

      When he opened them, he noticed how peaceful the kitchen was, clean and gleaming even in the dim stove light. The mugs in the glass-front cupboards were in straight rows and strangely blank. Ah. She’d turn the naked ladies to the back. He smiled. Heidi was a trip.

      Then he noticed a note in swirling letters sitting on a folded pair of jeans—his favorites, he realized, getting closer—which had gone missing. He thought Gigi had taken them by mistake.

      Thanks for helping me out. I’ll try to make your life easier…H

      The pie and the jeans were a great start, for sure. He sighed and took another bite. A roommate who cleaned house and cooked wasn’t half bad. So what if she vacuumed when he was battling for number one in the virtual Indy 500? Or made him want to jump her bones when she cleaned? She could take all the hot baths she wanted, for sure. He’d need plenty of cold showers anyway.

      He wrote her a note back, thanking her for the pie. He peeled the stickers from the cosmetics, so she wouldn’t know he’d bought them. He almost wanted to get up early enough to see her face when she saw it all. Too stupid. He put a spare house key on top of the note. She’d need that while she was here.

      Finished, he headed down the hall, tiptoeing so as not to wake her. He paused outside her room.

      What was she wearing? Was she naked? Wearing her daisy panties? He pictured her lying on her side, one leg bent, her cheek in the pillow, one perky nipple making a tiny dent in the sheet, ribs swelling and subsiding with her soft breaths.

      He fought the urge to push open the door—already cracked a bit—just to peek, maybe find out if she smelled as sweet in sleep as she did awake, and backed away, toward his room.

      And plowed straight into hard metal—his weight bench, he figured from the clanking. What the hell was it doing there?

      “Ow. Damn. Shit.” He rubbed the back of his head, then the back of his thighs, which had whacked the kick bar.

      “Jackson?” Heidi’s voice was husky with sleep and sharp with alarm. “Are you okay?” There she stood in her doorway, softly lit by his hula-girl nightlight wearing, of all things, his torn-up Hawaiian shirt.

      He didn’t know which was worse—the goose egg forming on the back of his skull or the hard-on in his jeans at the sight of her in that pinned-together old shirt sagging to the middle of her thigh. Just plain begging to be ripped off. All he could say was, “Great pie.”