Take my bra and panties off.
It’s the same conundrum and answer as before. The wetness from the bed seeped through my jeans, leaving my underwear damp. My bra has an underwire. If I plan to sleep tonight, I cannot wear either of them.
“Hell. Damn it to freaking hell,” I mutter as I shuck off both pieces and lunge for George’s T-shirt.
My only thought when I let the shirt drop over my head isThank god it’s longer than my ass. Then it’s just a fuzzy white noise when I once again lose the ability to think, because my nose is jam-packed with an intoxicating scent.
All day I’m surrounded by the smells of a diner. I can identify an entire menu with my nose alone.
But this, I can’t place this.
All I know is that George’s shirt smellsso good. This has to be a cologne. Some skillful concoction that sells for hundreds—no thousands—of dollars a bottle. Only rich people are able to smell this decadent.
I drag the collar to my nose and suck in a deep breath.
Another.
One more.
Oh god, I’m going to get high off George Bunsen’s T-shirt.
“Everything okay?” his deep voice asks from the other side of the bathroom door.
How long have I been here, hypnotized by his cologne? Does he wearthis into business meetings to trick people into giving him all of their money?
If so, solid plan, my man.
Reluctantly, I let the fabric fall away from my face and scurry around the room to get my clothes hung by the heater.
“Covered!” I call out, tugging on the hem of the shirt to make sure it’s definitely falling past my bare butt. This is one of those expensive T-shirts that’s deceptively simple, but the material is thick enough to survive plenty of trips through the wash and shouldn’t reveal anything lewd.
Not that George would care. I’m the annoying low-class add-on to his best friend. I’ve seen the girls Shawn dates. I met Tiffany. Money gets you expensive skin care and regular facials that leave you with a perpetually healthy glow. Clothes that accentuate every positive attribute of your figure. Hairdressers who…
Well, they may make magic as they charge you out the ass, but I’ll still choose Darla for that category. I have good hair, even if it’s a drenched, tangled mess right now.
All this to say, people in George’s tax bracket have the funds to perfect any natural attractiveness they were born with. He’s not about to be awed by my budget-store beauty.
Then George steps out of the bathroom and I remember that he has no shirt, and I am not immune to the charms of his chest. I avert my eyes and risk the bed, pulling back the covers to discover some thankfully clean-looking sheets.
Although I would not be willing to put them to a black light test.
When I get myself situated, sitting upright against the pillows, I realize George is still lingering in the bathroom doorway. He stands as if frozen, gaze fixed just past me, toward the window.
Not the window. The heater underneath it.
Where my bra and underwear hang beside my jeans and shirt.
“It was all wet,” I explain weakly, wondering if he’s disgusted, knowing I have nothing on under the shirt he lent me.
George swallows hard, turning all his focus on the bagged six-pack on the desk.
“Want one?” he asks without facing me.
“What kind did you get?” I should just say yes and down whatever alcohol he’s offering to help me get through the night in this dirty room with a guy who barely tolerates me. Especially when I told him I didn’t care.
Still…
Please don’t say IPA. Please not one of those hoppy monstrosities—
