“Most.”
I carefully set down my beer on the bedside table and accept the gift. That’s what it feels like, this free access to his phone. I’d never be so carefree handing over mine. I don’t even trust Darla to handle mine without supervision. But not because she’d find anything incriminating—mainly because she’d text a guy I hooked up with, saying he’s bad at giving head. She’d insist he’d be grateful for the feedback, which I doubt.
I fight off the urge to snoop and instead seek out the one app I really want. And there it is.
I tap the icon to open the app and squeak in excitement when it automatically logs in.
“We can watchMasters of the Air!” I grin up at him, naming the show that follows a flight crew on a Boeing B-17 during World War II. I’m not a war history buff, but any media showcasing airplanes has my attention.
George stares down at me, brows slowly lifting. “You want to?”
“Have you already seen it?”
He hesitates, then nods his head once.
My excitement dims. “Oh. I guess we can—”
“I want to watch it again.” He cuts me off. I can’t tell if he’s just being nice, but I want to see the B-17 Flying Fortress so badly that I don’t even care.
“Okay. How do you want to do this?”
George’s phone is a decent size, one of the newer models with a big screen. But it’s still a phone.
George pulls open the drawer on my bedside table, then checks his, coming out with a dusty Bible. He places the book on the bed near my thigh, then slips the phone from my hand and leans the device against the thick tome.
Is this blasphemous?Oh well. Mom never bothered taking me to church, so if there’s a hell, I’m probably far down the road to it anyway.
George scoops up his beer from the desk and returns to his side of the bed. I really wish this was a king-sized mattress, but it is solidly a double. With George’s broad shoulders, I’m not sure I’ll make it through the night without brushing up against him.
He pulls back the covers, and my eyes lock on his jeans. I can see the dampness in the fabric from when he heroically ran across the street to get us libations. The next words are out of my mouth before I think them through.
“You’re going to sleep in wet pants?”
George pauses, his hand grasping a pillow, his eyes fixed away from my face.
“Just…” Heat floods my cheeks again. Maybe I should have stayed dressed because the warmth coming off me from all this blushing would evaporate every drop of moisture in my vicinity. “I think it’ll be uncomfortable.”
He clears his throat. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
I pluck at his dry, delicious-smelling, soft-as-kittens T-shirt. “I’m plenty comfortable. If I didn’t already owe you so much, I’d probably steal this. It’s a really nice shirt.” I shrug and tap the screen of his phone back to life when it dims, doing my best to convey a nonchalance I do not feel.
“I meant because I’d be in my briefs,” George clarifies.
Oh. Duh.
I slap a hand over my eyes. “I won’t look. Go for it. Fair is fair, since you know I already stripped down.”
When I give a vague wave toward the heater, I could swear the temperature in the room changes. I shiver. After a breath, I hear George’s movement. Specifically, I catch the quick buzz of him undoing his zipper.
His jeans must be slack around his waist now. But they won’t fall all the way to the ground. The material is probably held up by his thick thighs. That rustling? It’s got to be him shimmying them down his legs.
I bite my bottom lip to hold back a groan, mortified that I’m trying to mentally undress George while he’s actively doing it just feet from me.
The mattress dips, and the air around me grows warmer.
“You can look now.”
I drop my hand and try not to be disappointed that his lower half is covered by the blankets. It’s just, I envisioned him in black briefs and want to know if I was right.
