Dammit. I never should’ve slept over. But I’d been so tired after the second time that I just crashed, and then we had sex again around four and—
I need to go.Now.
Coop already has an irrational fear of virgins. Waking to find one curled up against him like a lovesick fool probably qualifies as his own ninth circle of hell. Which is why I need to get out of this bed before he wakes up and decides I’m planning our freaking wedding.
So not happening.
We agreed this was a onetime deal and I have no plans to get attached.
I lie still, hardly daring to breathe as I listen to the steady rise and fall of his chest. When I’m certain he’s out cold, I gently lift his arm and slip out of bed. He’s stretched out on his side, hair adorably sleep mussed and sticking up at odd angles. Blond stubble lines his jaw and heat floods my body at the memory of it scraping against my thighs last night.
Coop really is a man of many talents.
But I doubt awkward morning after conversation is one of them.
I scoop up my sweatshirt and leggings, noting the pleasant soreness between my legs.
Marathon sex will do that to a girl.
Does three times count as marathon sex?
I’ll have to ask Haley.
Later.
Right. Clothes. I scan the room, but my bra and panties are nowhere in sight.
I tiptoe around the bed and find my bra peeking out from under Coop’s side, but no amount of searching reveals my very expensive, very lacy panties.
A small price to pay for amazing sex.
Fair enough. I tug on my leggings and dress quickly before slipping into the hall and closing the door silently behind me.
The house is quiet as I make my way downstairs and I’m just about to let myself out the front door when I realize I don’t have my keys.
Shit.
My chest tightens and I rack my brain, trying to remember the last time I had them.
Did I put them on the kitchen counter when I came in?
I head for the kitchen and as I near the entry, I see my Wildcat keyring laying on the counter.
Thank God.
The prospect of sneaking back into Coop’s room to search was unthinkable. I hurry in and grab the keys. Just as I’m turning back to the door, there’s a blur of movement to my right.
A startled cry bursts from my lips and my soul exits my body as Austin Reid, Waverly’s star quarterback, closes the fridge.
“Sorry.” He sets the bottle of orange juice he’s holding on the counter and I can’t help but notice his clothes have the same wrinkled look as my own. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“No worries,” I squeak, voice high and pitchy.
Holy-freaking-shit.
I’m talking to Austin Reid and I’m not wearing any underpants.
Will he know?
