He makes a low, pleased noise, so relaxed. Like he’s enjoying himself. Like he’s savoring this. He’s quiet for a moment. “Bea’s taking guitar lessons.”
My head lifts and I meet his eyes with a smile. “She is?”
“Yep.” He smiles, too. “And she’s made a few friends.”
My heart floats up into the sky. “She has? That’s great.”
“Yeah. It is.” The strong line of his throat moves as he swallows, watching me with that warm look. “It’s really great.”
There’s that feeling again, the one that keeps happening when we lock eyes for more than a second. The slow, delicious roll forward inside me, like I’m drawn to him. Like I want more.
I put my head back down on his chest. We should stop cuddling. I should go back to my guesthouse and watch the movie on my own laptop.
But when I glance up at him, his eyes are closed, and he looks so relaxed that I don’t want to disturb him, so I turn back to watch the movie.
CHAPTER 52
JORDAN
The next morning,my eyes are still closed but the room is bright. I am supremely comfortable, warm and cozy and sinking into the mattress and?—
Tate. I’m tucked against him, my back to his front, and from the slow, steady rise and fall of his broad, firm chest, he’s still asleep. A heavy arm draped over my waist, another beneath my neck, caging me in against him.
Oh my god. I fell asleep. I was supposed to go back to my guesthouse but I fell asleep in his bed. This is not okay in twelve million different ways, and now I need to extricate myself without waking him up. Who fell asleep first, me or him? Maybe he doesn’t know I’m here.
We’re under the duvet, one that rivals the fluffiness of mine in the guesthouse. It’s covered in the softest cotton duvet cover, and I have the urge to brush my cheek against it.
I start to slide out and his arms tighten around me. He’s no longer wearing his t-shirt, I realize. Or his pants. He’s in just his boxer briefs. I wait a moment and try again.
He sucks in a sharp breath.
“Morning.” His voice is low and gravelly with sleep, and the single word goes straight to the bottom of my stomach with a pleasant twinge.
“Hi.” I swallow, every muscle in my body taut. “Hello.”
Hello? My god, Jordan.
“Good morning,” I add, because apparently this isn’t awkward enough. Let’s make it worse. Great. Yes.
I feel the gentle shake of his chest against my back.
“Are you laughing at me?” I ask, attempting indignation.
“Yes.”
I look over my shoulder and am immediately devastated by his fucked-up bedhead, stubble, and bright but sleepy eyes, so green and amused in the morning light.
I’m finished. Slashed in half. Bleeding out and doomed, with seconds to live. I’ll never recover after seeing him like this. My gaze snags on his pecs, on the chest hair, the way his shoulders are round and more toned than most guys in the NHL, I’m betting.
“I fell asleep,” I say.
His eyes are steady on me. Hisarmis still around me. A million exclamation points bounce around my brain. He doesn’t look mad, or annoyed, or concerned or like any of this is a problem. He doesn’t look anything except handsome. So handsome. His handsomeness is eviscerating. His expression gives me nothing.
“You fell asleep.” He blinks, frowning like he’s confused. “So did I. I slept all night. Again.”
“I should, um.” Move. Change my name. Research facial reconstruction. I kind of like my nose and my eyes but maybe I could get away with bleaching my hair and getting a bunch of piercings, or something. Find a village in Italy where no one speaks English and I can have a tiny bar where I serve only Negronis. “Go. I’m going to go.”
He told me very clearly that we weren’t anything, and yet here I am, waking up in his bed. He probably thinks I have a crush on him.
