“Thanks,” I mumble. Can someone die of embarrassment? I fumble with the clothes, still holding the towel as best as I can.
“I’m just going to go back to the bathroom to change,” I say, with as much dignity as I can muster.
“Okay.” His gaze slides back to my body and snags on my chest again. He blows out a deep exhale and glances away abruptly. “I’ll take a shower when you’re done.”
“I know it’s a hotel and all, but I think I might have used up all the hot water.”
He shakes his head, as if coming out of a trance. Something in the way he looks at me causes the heat of embarrassment to turn into heat of another kind. I’m acutely aware that I’m wearing nothing beneath this towel. I open my mouth, but there are no words. I lick my dry lips.
His smile is slow.
“It’s okay. A cold shower sounds like a good idea,” he says in a growly voice that I feel at the very center of me.
CHAPTER 18
Olivia
I’m having one of those surreal moments. Where I stop, look at my life, and wonder how the heck I arrived here. What amalgamation of sliding doors, missed opportunities, and quirks of fate somehow added up to this here and now?
Because lying on a couch snuggled up to superstar, super-hot Chase James is just not in the context of a normal life. At least not my life.
We still haven’t talked about the towel incident. I’m highly grateful for that.
We decided to watch a movie, which is how we ended up sharing a blanket on the couch, an uber-popular sci-fi flick on in the background. I hold the giant bowl of popcorn on my lap.
Chase and I keep making up alternate dialogue for the film.
This day has been all laughs and butterflies, which is a blessing and a curse, because no guy will live up to the standard Chase has set. The only one who’s come close to making me fall this hard is Remington, but he doesn’t count because I’ve never been able to couch-snuggle with him.
Chase and I are playing a drinking game with whiskey. Well, he’s playing it with whiskey. I’m taking tentative sips of Bailey’s, which is a little more my speed. Chase called down to the concierge, and miracle of movie-star-miracles, the bottles of alcohol arrived at his door twenty minutes later, along with what looks like really good champagne. Had I known his hotel was privy to this kind of service, I wouldn’t have gone to the corner store for soup ingredients last night. I would have used the concierge fairy.
So we drink every time someone says, “Transport,” in the movie.
They say it a lot because it’s the teleport command, which means we’ve been drinking constantly, and explains why it’s such a popular game on college campuses. I’ve taken a lot of sips—not enough to get drunk, but enough to make me feel soft and fuzzy around the edges.
Chase nudges me. “You’re not paying attention to this masterpiece of modern cinema.”
“Oh, sorry. Am I missing something super good?” I ask dryly and throw a piece of popcorn that lands in his hair.
He takes the popcorn and pops it into his mouth.
“Ew.” I laugh, lightly slapping him.
He grabs my hand, speeding up my heart rate.
We started out the night sitting next to each other on the couch, a respectable distance apart. But over the course of the movie, inch by agonizing inch, we got closer. A shift here, a move there, fingers closing the distance until they touch.
Eventually, we got so close that we give up the pretense of this being accidental. At least, I don’t think it’s accidental. Definitely not on my side.
“Watch. You’re gonna miss the best part,” he orders.
“And what part is that?” I ask.
“The kissing part,” he murmurs into my ear.
The only sound is the movie—the romantic score, the sound of lips locking.
“She’s pretty,” I comment as casually as I can manage. It’s an understatement. The actress is stunning and another woman rumored to have dated Chase. I learned that in my internet-stalking research.
I shift slightly, and as I move, my breasts brush against him. The contact only lasts a moment—it’s there and gone, but I can’t help letting out a little gasp. It’s the fault of my sensitive nipples and braless state since my clothes still haven’t arrived back from housekeeping. I’m in one of Chase’s oversized T-shirts and a pair of his boxers, which hug my curves. His clothes smell like his detergent, and I never want to give them back. When he first saw me wearing them, he got all quiet, which I’m not sure how to interpret.