Mind Blind Blooper Reel

Sally flings herself out of the elevator, a blur of yellow pajamas and red curls. She hurdles towards you full speed, her arms outstretched so as to catch you in her embrace.

“That’s it,” she declares, tightening her hold. “I’m never letting you out of my sight again.”

* * * *

Sally shoves past Gray, heedless of his wince as her elbow accidentally connects with his gut. She stomps towards you with a scowl, her aura intimidating despite her daisy-print pajamas.

“I’m not—” she starts angrily before breaking abruptly off, examining your expression. She takes a deep breath and shakes her head. “Look, I know we haven’t—”

She cuts off again, meeting your gaze directly. “No matter how far we grow apart, I’ll always be here for you in a situation like this.”

* * * *

Grayson is too courteous to comment, although his pinkening cheeks confirm that he’s hearing your idly wandering thoughts about Kent. Common curtesy requires that you focus on something else while he reads your mind. Something less intriguing than the way Kent’s shoulders stiffened whenever Andy flirted, his shirt stretching as the muscles beneath tightened and flexed, muscles that you were blessed enough to see in all their naked glory the first time that . . .

Gray coughs delicately.

Shit. You’re doing it again.

* * * *

Grayson is too courteous to comment, although his pinkening cheeks confirm that he’s hearing your idly wandering thoughts about Talia. Common curtesy requires that you focus on something else while he reads your mind. Something less intriguing than the way Talia laughs, her head tilting backward to accentuate the elegant line of her neck, her skin smooth and soft, and leading down towards . . .

Gray coughs delicately.

Shit. You’re doing it again.

* * * *

Grayson is too courteous to comment, although his pinkening cheeks confirm that he’s hearing your idly wandering thoughts about Ambrose. Common curtesy requires that you focus on something else while he reads your mind. Something less intriguing than the husky growl of Ambrose’s voice when he first answered the phone, a low timbre that lit your imagination afire with heated visions of the two of you entwined while . . .

Gray half-groans, half-laughs. “Poor Nick.”