“I don’t need a babysitter,” I grit out, tripping up the steps myself to block her and sounding more like the fuckup I was in high school than the man I am today.
“I’m not ababysitter. Think of me more like a buffer. You don’t really want Chandler accidentally setting more of your clothes on fire, do you? Wait. No. Don’t answer that.”
I reach the doorframe and slide in front of her to block her. This is the worst possible thing Emma could’ve done.
I love my sister. I adore my sister. The two of us have been through some shit and come out on the other side, and I would do anything for her.
Doing way more for her this week than she even knows, and I legit don’t care if she never finds out. Just want her to be happy, even if I don’t understand what makes her happy all the time.
Butsending Laney to babysit me?
This is cruel.
And it’s not happening. It’s a step too far. “You ever have fun, Princess Plainy-Laney?”
“Yes, sometimes I stay up late at night doing puzzles while adding a little dollop of brandy to my chamomile. But just a dollop. Much more than that, and it might give medirtydreams.”
I’m momentarily speechless.
Mostly because I can’t decide if she’s serious or if she’s fucking with me.
She smiles brighter, blue eyes almost dancing. And while I’m unscrambling my brains after havingDelaney Kingstonmock herself to my face, she ducks around me and presses her keycard to the lock mechanism on my hotel door.
There’s a click, and she strolls into my bungalow.
And then she lets the door slam in my face.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Do I care where I sleep? No.
But am I letting this woman loose all on her own inside my hotel room when I know what’s in the spare bedroom and she doesn’t?
Fuck fuck fuck.
Rule-following Delaney Kingstoncannotbe in my bungalow unsupervised.
She absolutely cannot.
I reach for my pocket, remember I’m in nothing but my briefs, and then dive for the sopping, mutilated costume on the bungalow porch. It takes too long to find my keycard in the interior pocket, and when I do, I half hope it doesn’t work.
Let me be lost. Let me be lost. Let me be lost.
But it clicks open just like it did for her a moment ago.
And when I walk inside—yes, after tripping over my costume and kicking it off—Delaney’s there.
I rub my eyes.
Blink a few times.
Hope a whole lot.
Doesn’t work.
She’s still here, halfway across the tropical-patterned rug in the living room on her way to the first bedroom, pulling along a god-awful floral-print suitcase.
