I blink slowly a few times, waiting for the punch line. And when it doesn’t come, I burst out laughing. “That”—I point at him—“is not happening.”
“I’ll sleep in the chair. You can have the bed.”
“That will be just great for your shoulder. No chance.”
“Then I’ll take my pillow and a blanket, and I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“Rhett,” I scold, heat burning over my chest at how pushy he’s being. “I’m not doing that. We’re not doing that.”
He smirks now, cocky prick he is. “Why? You worried you won’t be able to resist me?”
My jaw drops. “Rude. And no. I’m more worried I might accidentally hold a pillow over your smug, pretty face until you stop breathing. I have a sweatsuit. I’ll dress warm. I’ll be fine.”
He turns, and in a few strides he flips the top half of my suitcase closed, and I stand frowning at him as he zips my bag shut.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“All I heard was that you think I have a pretty face,” he says as he marches past me, rolling my suitcase behind himself.
“Of course, you missed the part about me wanting to kill you.”
When he gets to the door, he waves a hand over his shoulder and pushes out into the hallway. “Keep up, Princess. Kill me, don’t kill me. At least you’ll be warm. You’re with me tonight.”
14
Summer
Willa: Did you bang him yet?
Summer: Goodnight, Willa.
Willa: You only live once, you know. This is a story you could tell your kids one day.
Summer: What the fuck kind of stories do you plan on telling your children, Wils?
I assess my matching bra and panties in the mirror of Rhett’s bathroom. A set I splurged on. A silvery silk that I’m obsessed with. I contemplate taking them off and just slipping into the matching dusty pink sweatpants and sweatshirt that’s folded on the counter beside me.
I’m overthinking this.
If I keep the lingerie on, what does it mean? Does it mean anything? If I go out there and pull out a different bra and panties, I’ll just draw attention to myself. And if I’m being honest, none of my other sets are any better. I’m an absolute whore for fancy lingerie.
Long months spent in a hospital gown have made me appreciate all things that make me feel pretty. Sexy. Even the angry red scar down the center of my chest doesn’t take away from that for me anymore. I’ve outgrown that insecurity.
But is going naked underneath the sweatsuit any better?
Yes. It’s more casual. More comfortable for sure.
I pull my bra down and am about to flip it around to undo the clasps when I catch sight of my breasts in the mirror.
Full and pale. And peaked with rock-hard nipples.
“Fuck my life,” I mutter, pulling the bra back up and replacing the straps.
Bra it is because I’m not facing Rhett Eaton with full headlights.
I slip on the sweatsuit and neatly fold my other clothes before making my way back into the basic hotel room.
The basic hotel room with one queen-size bed. And a queen-size bed has never looked quite so small as it does right at this moment. Deep down, I know I can’t let Rhett sleep on the floor. Not with the current state of his body. It wouldn’t be fair.
I’m still chilled from sitting in my ice-cold room, and I shiver when I catch sight of him standing at the doorway talking to someone. His broad shoulders do nothing but pronounce the taper of his waist, which does nothing but pronounce his nice ass.
Letting my eyes trail over Rhett Eaton is like spending time at an amusement park. Each part is better than the last. When he turns to face me with takeout boxes in his large hands, my mind flashes to how they might feel on my bare skin. Big, warm, and calloused.
He looks nothing like the men I’ve grown accustomed to spending time with. They’re all pale and smooth—well manicured. Some have been fans of literal manicures.
Rhett is weathered, his t-shirt tan line from last summer still faintly noticeable. And when he smiles, the skin beside his eyes crinkles in the most genuine way.
His work-hewn hands would feel like heaven sliding over my skin.
I shiver again, but this time I don’t think it’s because I’m cold.
“Food?” he asks, knocking me right out of my treacherous thoughts.
“Uh,” I reply, scrambling to come up with something to say that doesn’t involve me wondering out loud how it would feel to be man-handled by him. “I’m good.”
He quirks a brow, like he doesn’t believe me, and strides over to the bed. Food in hand, he perches on the end of the mattress before flicking on the TV. The channels flip until he lands on some type of gladiator show where people work their way through an extreme obstacle course and do their best not to die.