It’s been a long time since I’ve been still like this.
I’m always on the go. Networking. Socializing. Getting shit done.
The sudden stillness is strange but not unpleasant. Maybe Lucy is right. Maybe I should slow down more often.
But really, who has the time? There’s always some big new launch, some revised training program to roll out, a fresh ad campaign to oversee and analyze. And then there’s the competition. They’re always nipping at our heels, ready to move into the top spot if Triada falters.
“I should get to bed,” Lucy finally says, breaking the silence. “I’ve got another long day of driving tomorrow.”
I climb to my feet and stretch. “I’ll help you clean up, and then you can show me where to crash.”
Fifteen minutes later, the fire’s doused and I’m back in the trailer, staring at my makeshift bed.
Correction: my tiny, child-size, makeshift bed.
“If you curl up in the fetal position,” Lucy says, tilting her head thoughtfully, “I think you’ll fit well enough.”
“You can’t be serious.”
There’s no fucking way I can sleep on this tiny collection of cushions for one night, let alone fourteen.
“It’s supposed to pull out into a full-size bed, but it’s broken.” She smiles demurely, confirming beyond a shadow of a doubt that she’s enjoying every second of my immense discomfort. “If I’d known you were coming along, I would have gotten it fixed.”
Somehow, I doubt that.
Look before you leap, asshole.
Lucy’s advice might’ve been a little too on the nose, but there’s nothing to be done about it now.
“Where are you sleeping?” I ask, resigned to my fate.
She turns and points to the cushioned seating area that runs along the side of the trailer.
“Let me guess. That one pulls out into a proper bed?”
Her grin is answer enough.
The only good thing about the couch—bench?—at the front of the trailer is that it’s about as far as I can get from Gremlin, because despite what Lucy says, that little ball of fur is definitely more rodent than pet.
Lucy takes the first shift in the bathroom as I unpack my suitcase into the storage area below my bed. There’s not a lot of space, and the drawers smell distinctly of mothballs, but that’s the least of my worries, because when Lucy emerges from the bathroom, she’s half naked.
I bolt upright and crack my skull on the overhead cabinets.
“Motherfucker!”
Pain blossoms from the point of impact, radiating down my spine.
Lucy freezes, eyes wide. “Are— Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” I rub the back of my head, which is throbbing. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” I jerk my chin toward the storage bins, which, like every other surface in this place, are covered with photos of exotic locations. “Forgot about those.”
“On the bright side, I doubt you’ll make that mistake twice.”
I should say something. Make a witty reply. Agree. Throw up a prayer to whatever god of fortune has smiled down upon me. But the words are stuck in my throat, because Lucy stands before me in a thin white T-shirt that barely skims the top of her thighs—and she’s not wearing a bra.
Christ. I think I see her nipples.
I turn my head and raise a hand to block my view. “What are you wearing?”
