“Shut up.” She’s so fucking cute when she’s frustrated. Based on her body language and how she reacted when she first got up this morning, it’s pretty clear to me where she wants to go with this conversation.
Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I take my time to stand and stretch. Knowing full well that she won’t be able to resist staring, at least not if last night was any indication.
If she’s going to tell me this can’t happen again, I might as well make it a little difficult for her.
“So last night can’t happen again.”
Ah, bingo.
“Which part?” As I saunter closer to her, she pulls the towel even tighter. Standing a mere handful of inches in front of her, I look down and smile. “Was it the wine? Or the part where you came all over my face?”
Redness sprawls across her delicate features. “Both.”
“That’s too bad. I liked it.”
“You’re impossible. We can’t do that again.”
“Why not?”
“Because...” I see her search for reasons mentally. “Becausewe don’t like each other. People who don’t like each other shouldn’t sleep together.”
I smile to cover up the pit in my stomach when she says it. Because I do like her, despite all my efforts not to.
“Hurry,” I instruct. “We’ve got brunch and then Janine’s booked us on a hot-air balloon.”
Chapter Forty-One
CLOVER
What kind of menace to society plans a hot-air balloon as a date? Janine Weavers, that’s who. There are not enough waivers in the world for me to be convinced this is safe.
“It looks like a glorified bird’s nest,” I hiss under my breath to Roman. We stare at the small wicker basket in front of us, and the grinning guide trying to convince us it’s safer than it appears. To his credit, Armando seems like he knows his stuff. It’s the whole apparatus itself I’m not sold on.
The fabric of the balloon is made up of patches of color, giving the deadly activity a deceptively fun look, and the wicker basket looks small and rickety. Not nearly secure enough to be sailing thousands of feet in the air. Plus, it’s awfully tight quarters to be in with Roman after what we did last night.
Heat flashes through me and pressure builds between my legs when I think about how hard he made me come.
Roman takes a step forward toward the balloon, and my hand darts out, grabbing him by the forearm and holding him there. Is he insane?
“Scared, Sparky?” he whispers in my ear.
“Anyone with survival instincts would be.”
“We don’t have to do it,” he adds, placing his hand atop the one I’ve got death-gripping him. His thumb rubs a soothing circle on the back of my hand.
But when I look back, I can see other people observing us as they wait to board a balloon nearby. They’ve clearly clocked that Roman Everett is here, and I don’t want to give anyone a reason to report anything back to the press about us. Lord knows, us pulling out of this at the last minute would probably turn into some headline about how we stiffed a small business.
Trying to swallow down the fear that’s building in my chest, I shake my head.
“No. I can do this.”
“I’ll let you hold my hand if you need,” Roman teases. Little does he know, I may need to take him up on that.
As we step into the basket, Armando beams.
“Welcome aboard, please keep your arms and legs inside the structure.”
“No problem,” I squeak. It’ll be a miracle if I don’t plant my ass on the floor of this thing for the entire flight.
