CLAYTON
Clayton shut off the bathroom light and eased back into bed, the sheets cool against his skin. Jamie had already drifted off, her body warm and relaxed beside him. The faint scent of her perfume—vanilla with a trace of something floral—still clung to his skin, mixing with the lingering musk of their bodies.
They hadn’t planned this. Hell, neither of them had even hinted at it before tonight. But after a few too many drinks and how she’d looked at him—like maybe he wasn’t just her sparring partner, a thorn in her side, but something more—resisting had been impossible.
And damn, it had been better than anything he’d ever imagined. The way her breath stopped when he first touched her. The heat of her mouth, the softness of her skin, the way she moved with him, against him—like they’d been made for this, for each other. But it wasn’t just about the physical. It was how she looked at him, bare and vulnerable in a way she never allowed herself to be. He’d spent so much time convinced she hated him, yet tonight she’d touched him like he was the only thing that mattered.
His chest ached at the thought. He should have told her. Should have admitted what had been clawing at him for months, maybe longer.
He shifted closer, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. His fingers skimmed her cheek, warm and smooth, and a soft sigh escaped her lips.
Leaning in, he let his breath touch her skin before whispering, “I love you.”
CHAPTER 35
JAMIE
Jamie stirred, blinking against the morning light as hazy memories from last night drifted back. She shifted slightly, turning her head—and there he was. Clayton was fast asleep, his hair a wild mess, his face relaxed in a way she’d never seen before. Peaceful. Handsome.
And completely unaware of the emotional storm brewing inside her.
How was she supposed to handle this? She hadn’t meant for things to go this far. But she didn’t regret it. Not even a little. And from what he’d murmured last night when he crawled back into bed, neither did he.
He loved her.
At least, that’s what he’d said.
But maybe it was just the tequila. Maybe he hadn’t meant it.
She stared at the ceiling, her pulse unsteady as she tried to sort through the fine mess she’d landed in.
Beside her Clayton shifted and let out a low, sleepy murmur.
“Hey, darlin’.” His voice was rough, groggy. “How’d you sleep?”
Jamie swallowed, forcing herself to sound normal. “Fine.” She rubbed her temples. “I think I drank too much.”
He reached out, his fingers tracing a slow, lazy path over her arm. His gaze met hers, warm and amused. “Nah. You did a good job of drinking.”
“I did.” She let out a laugh, tension easing ever so slightly. “Maybe we should go back to not drinking?”
“Well, I ain’t going to argue with that.”
But the question still lingered: Did he remember?
And if he did . . . did he mean it?
“You said something interesting last night,” she said, looking at his face for any sign of recognition.
“I did?”
Shit. He didn’t remember. She hesitated, debating whether to tell him, but she was done playing games.
“When you crawled back into bed,” she said, hoping to jog his memory.
He sighed. “You heard that, huh?”
“Did you mean it?”
