“Neither am I,” he says. “And I’m too big to fit in that chair.”
My head bobs in agreement. “You are.”
“So… that leaves the bed.”
“It does,” I say, finishing our lame oral checklist of available motel furniture.
Brandon takes a moment to study me. “You sure you’re okay with this?”
“Um, sure.” The tension is so awkward that I blurt, “I mean, it’s nothing we haven’t done before.”
Brandon’s laugh fills the room before he hitches an eyebrow. “Well, if that’s the rule this weekend…”
I hurl a pillow at him, but he catches it and harmlessly tosses it back onto the bed. Brandon mindlessly cracks a few knuckles before his eyes meet mine again.
“Will Tanner be upset?”
My mouth runs dry as heat creeps up my neck. Lying about the breakup to my parents was easy. But this? It feels…wrong.
Maybe the events of today are blurring my thoughts together. In my mind’s eye, I can still see the protective stance he held over me in creepy Tom’s cabin. Feel the heat of his hand on mine as I touched his forearm in the car.
My thoughts—and feelings—are a soupy mess.
“He won’t be,” I decide to hedge. Which ispartlytrue.
But Brandon knows me too well.
“Kate.” He drags my name through two syllables. “What aren’t you telling me?”
I inspect the ends of my straight hair with a clinical eye. “He’s not in the picture anymore.”
A myriad of emotions flash across Brandon’s face so fast I can’t decipher even one.
“Oh. Well, sorry to hear that,” he says.
My eyes roll so forcefully that I fear they might get stuck in the back of my skull.
“No, you’re not,” I say.
“I’m not.” Brandon grins. “Tanner sucked.”
“Shut up.” I force my laugh to stay put.
Being single again has felt like a weight crushing my chest, but for some reason, I feel the furthest thing from hopeless right now.
Classic Brandon and his anti-gravity ways.
Brandon winks and disappears into the bathroom, and I fall onto the bed, cupping my smile.
Seventeen social media scrolls later, Brandon walks back into theroom. I take one look at him, and if there is any oxygen left in the air, I might gasp.
Dim light settles into the grooves between his pectoral muscles and abs which are, in fact, a spitting image of the Blacksmith’s. The black spyglass tattoo skirts just below his collarbone, rose petals curling beside it.
“What…” I clear my throat. “What happened to your shirt?”
“I took it off.” He doesn’t look at me. “You know I can’t sleep in a shirt, Kate. This isn’t news. Plus, I thought you might need this.”
Something white flashes through the air. I catch it, recognizing it as one of the tanks he used to wear as undershirts. It must have been beneath his knit sweater this whole time. The scent of sexy cedarwood wafting through the air is reason enough to snatch it with a word of thanks.
