Never, probably. And I’m damn lucky that I’m doing it with her. If my luck holds out, she just might feel the same way.
The door to the bathroom flies open, and Darby steps through. She looks positively edible in nothing but that sweater and my fucking boxers. The possessiveness that pours through me, the sense ofrightness, is overwhelming. But when I notice that her face is stony, I scramble upright, my erection forgotten.
“What’s the matter?” She’s holding enough condoms to keep us busy all night, although right now she doesn’t look inclined to use them.
She blows out a long breath. “This is going to sound jealous and possessive and probably a little paranoid, but did you get another woman’s number tonight?”
Okay, I definitely got naked too soon.
“A woman gavemeher number,” I say cautiously.
“And did you take it?”
In a flash, I realize what’s happened. “Your brother told you.”
She nods, her mouth curling down at the edges. “So you know he saw you?”
“Of course! He’s not nearly as stealthy as he thinks he is.” I slide out of bed and walk over to her, not caring about my nakedness anymore. “That’s the only reason I was talking to her.”
“But my brother saw—”
“Your brother saw what I wanted him to see.” And I want to punch him in the face because of it, even though this is exactly what Darby was hoping for when we agreed to this plan in the first place.
She must come to the same realization, but when she laughs it sounds sad. “It was part of the act, then.”
“Yes. Yes!” I say. “Besides, what would I do with the number of a random woman who lives three hours north of me?”
Her mouth snaps shut, and I realize about two seconds too late that this was the wrong thing to say. “What I mean is, I don’t want anybody else’s number. I’ve gotyournumber.”
I’m serious, but she’s not listening to me.
“Was she your age?”
Her question doesn’t make sense at first, and when I realize what’s on her mind, that’s also when I realize that it’s time for me to put my pants back on. I grab them from the floor and pull them on, my movements stiff.
“I told you I don’t care about that. I don’t get whyyoucare about it so much.”
She waves her arms and then lets them drop. “I don’t! It’s just… I thought maybe she was actually your type. You know, younger, more confident, unlikely to drag you away from home over Christmas to make you lie to a bunch of strangers.”
My type is increasingly becoming dark-haired librarians who don’t see how incredible they are, but I’m not sure telling her this right now is going to help anything. So I stick with the easy truths.
“I wasn’t interested in that woman. She wrote her number on my palm, and I let her because I knew your brother was right outside the door and could probably see us.” I rub the heel of my hand over my forehead, trying to get this all out right. “I washed it off right away. I’m not interested in her, and I have no idea how old she is. It was all part of the actthat you wanted me to do.”
The last part emerges a little more pointedly than I intended, but it’s out there now.
“The act.” She laughs without humor and jabs a finger at the bed. “Was that part of the act too?”
“Christ, no! We both wanted that, babe.”
Her mouth snaps shut, and she takes a step back. “Don’t call me that.”
“What? Babe?”
“That’s what Bad Gabe calls me.” She crosses her arms and glares at me while I run through our interactions over the past few days. Dammit, she’s right. When I’m on my worst behavior, I’m a smug prick who doesn’t call her by her real name. And I’ve just done it when we’re alone together, at the worst possible time.
Even though it feels increasingly futile, I try one more time to convince her that she’s misunderstanding everything about tonight.
“That”—I gesture to the bed—“wasn’t Bad Gabe. That was the very best Gabe I could be.” Judging by her suspicious expression, Best Gabe wasn’t good enough, which is exactly why I hesitate to tell her about my warm-chest feelings.
