We lock eyes—his wary, mine likely wild with surprise—and his gaze drifts down to where my robe is gaping open and showing off my cleavage.
I muffle a shriek and retreat to the bedroom as Hudson calls, “Hey, Bea, Simon’s here to see you.”
“I daresay she’s figured that out.” Simon’s voice holds all of the normal cheer that doesn’t match the hint of caution I noticed in his eyes.
Maybe I was imagining it.
Maybe he was startled too and I misread his expression.
Maybe Hudson threatened to disembowel him and invite Ryker over to help.
Or maybe Hudson’s right and Simon needs a friend and he doesn’t know how to say so.
Or maybe Simon’s here because he wants to know more of what I remember of last night that he doesn’t.
The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that Simon wouldn’t have told me he didn’t like me if he hadn’t been drunk.
So this has to put him in an awkward position.
And if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Simon Luckwood in the past week—he doesn’t send his team to do his work. Dirty or otherwise.
He apologized himself—once alone, once with his boys—for putting me in jail. He went on an apology date with me. He broke down the bathroom door himself to rescue me last night.
And Hudson’s probably right that his security team is the reason he didn’t stick around to save the goldfish.
So of course he’s not sending an assistant or a security guard to ask what he said.
He wants to know himself.
I dig through the clean laundry pile in the corner of my room between my queen-size bed and the lone window, telling myself I’m looking for a bra and underwear while I toss aside shirts and shorts and skirts and pants that I’m suddenly not feeling like wearing, because whatdoesa woman wear to meet a guy in her living room when the guy gave her the most awkward date of her life—no, wait,dates, because I think today counted as a date too, and both of them were awkward.
And also kind of awesome.
Not because I was on a date with a guy I’ve watched for countless hours on TV—Jakelovedthat show—but because he’s nothing like what I would’ve expected.
He’s too real for that.
Too normal.
Male voices drift down the hall and through the hollow wood bedroom door.
Video games.
They’re discussing video games.
I finally locate my favorite bra and my skimpiest panties—I’m feeling like a strong, sexy woman today, okay? It has nothing to do with Simon being here after he abandoned me at the carnival—and I decide on olive green linen shorts and a loose white sleeveless blouse.
After finger-combing my curls and shaking them out, I decide wet hair will do and stroll back out of my bedroom, where the scent of fried cheese hits me in the face.
“And what does that one do?” Simon’s saying to Hudson as they huddle over his phone, one empty plate of leftover mozzarella stick breading on the table in front of them.
I eye Simon.
He didn’t eat cheese, did he?
Wait.
No.
