I push up onto my palms to face him, ready to unleash my sharp tongue, but the words die in my throat. Because Chance fills the doorway like every rom-com fantasy come to life, snowflakes melting in his hair, looking at me with an intensity that makes me forget why I ever thought sharing a room was a good idea.
Like maybe we're not as mature about this as we're pretending to be.
And maybe I don't want to be.
Chapter Four
Chance
I should sleepin my fucking truck.
Hell, I've slept in worse conditions during basic. At least the truck has heat and no one forcing me to do pushups in the mud at ass o'clock in the morning.
And the damn booty temptress could keep her pert little ass right where I plopped her. Dead center in what had to be the comforter version of an ugly Christmas sweater that lost so bad it got kicked out of the competition and had to start its own support group. The thing probably plays "Jingle Bells" if you pat it hard enough.
I blame the emoji fest for this. The Tab A in Slot B or C successfully traumatized Nick, but the collateral damage is currently trying to bust through my zipper.
Mission objective: Success.
Collateral damage: Devastating.
Now, all I can think about is how she equated Tab A in slot B to some sort of amateur hour.
And the implication that she shed her training wheels a long time ago.
My fucking cock swelled against my zipper the minute the tinkling words rolled off her evil tongue. Like some hormone-driven cadet who can't maintain proper discipline.
No matter how many times I muttered, "Down boy," he continued to sit at attention in my fucking pants, bypassing my common sense entirely. Court-martial worthy insubordination if I ever saw it.
Fuck.
And if I stay out here much longer, she'll be teetering her ass out here on those heels. Because Holly McAdams never met a battle she wouldn't charge into headfirst.
I grab my bags and trudge back toward my purgatory for at least the next twelve hours.
When I push through the door, I skid to a stop at the sight of Holly sprawled on her stomach across the bed, legs kicked up behind her, ankles crossed, sucking on what appears to be a Ring Pop while scrolling through her phone. The flash of white lace peeking out from under her hiked-up skirt short-circuits my brain.
"We should get you out of those wet clothes."
The wince is immediate.
Well, that's not how I meant for it to sound—tactical error number one.
The suggestive words hang there. Holly's full pink lips part in a way that invites… you know what… not fucking going there.
The vein in my temple throbs.
My dog in her bun, okay.
There. Fine. I went there.
In my head. And my little head.
I didn't go there out loud. That's all that matters. Small victories.
"I mean—I don't know what you've got in your carry-on, but if you don't—maybe you need—I've got a shirt you can borrow. If you want to—uh, need to."
The fuck is happening right now?
