Dragging a hand down my face, I release a hard exhale, spinning around and storming back down the hallway and up the stairs, to my bedroom. Alone. Where I belong.
I can apologize tomorrow, in broad daylight, maybe with a witness so I don’t go and do something stupid I know I’ll regret, and fuck this whole thing up.
CHAPTER 25
POPPY
Ifeel sick.
As I lie here in bed, staring up at the ceiling, the morning sun reflecting off the ocean outside and painting the white canvas with a kaleidoscope of colors, I feel physically sick to my stomach. I feel like death might be less painful than the mortification that is currently searing through my veins, cooking me from the inside out.
God, even the waves sound like they’re laughing at me.
No matter how hard I try to forget, the ocean will always remember that, last night, I stripped down to my thong in some pathetic attempt to try and seduce Brookes Devereaux, only for him to turn me down. God, I probably scared the shit out of him.
I don’t know what came over me. I thought I felt something shift between us. I thought he felt it he too. I’ve never done anything as bold as what I did last night. And I was actually proud of myself for taking that step. But then it failed spectacularly.
Maybe I should move to the desert; there are no waves in the desert to laugh at me.
Grabbing a pillow, I hold it over my face and scream until I have no air left in my lungs.
Thank God I haven’t touched my first fake girlfriend payment yet; Brookes is probably going to claw it back when he fires me.
As soon as I’m showered and dressed, I grab my laptop and my sketch book, and I force myself to get a start on my day because, despite my shame and embarrassment and the heavy weight of rejection that has settled over my head like a big, dark storm cloud, I can’t hide out in my room forever.
As I walk through to the kitchen, I’m relieved to find the house Brookes-free.
I set my things up on the island and help myself to Brookes’ top-of-the-line coffee machine. Because if I have to look that man in the face today, you can bet I am not about to do it without caffeine.
Grabbing a cup from the overhead cabinet, I place it under the machine, looking closer at the contraption to try to figure it out. It’s one of those monstrosities that costs more than some cars and requires an engineering degree to operate it, but it makes the best espresso, like a nectar from the heavens. God, my mouth waters just thinking about it. But, of course, the moment I press the button, the machine just beeps at me.
Rude. I huff, pressing the button again.
The machine starts to whir, but then it sputters, and the piercingbeep, beep, beeprings through the kitchen again. I could cry.
When I try again, the machine beeps in response. Violently this time. Like it’s about to alert the security company that monitors the gated community; the cops will be here any second, I’m sure.
I throw my head back on a groan but then suddenly, something warm and hard presses up against me from behind, a familiar spicy scent curling around me. With a gasp, I snap myhead up, looking down to see a big hand land on the countertop next to my hip, a ropey tattooed forearm reaching over my shoulder, lifting the lid off one of the coffee machine compartments and fiddling with something inside before securing it again. A thick finger presses the button, and like magic, the machine starts whirring happily, doing its thing. Seconds later, my nostrils are hit with the delicious aroma of full-bodied Columbian coffee as it fills my cup, a soft, warm breath fanning against the crook of my neck.
“I’ve been meaning to get someone in to take a look at it.”
Snapping out of my lust-filled daze, I spin around to find Brookes looking in the fridge, his back to me as he rifles through the contents like he wasn’t just pressed up against me and breathing hard against my neck. But then my brows knit together as I try to make sense of what just happened. Did I imagine it? Oh my God, am I going crazy?
The machine beeps softly, and I look at it to see my coffee is ready, and with a slightly foggy mind, I shake my head to try and clear the haze, grabbing my cup and moving around the other side of the island to my laptop, as far from Brookes as the kitchen will allow.
Focusing on my laptop, I ignore Brookes as he moves about the kitchen and heats up one of the special ready-made meals his team of nutritionists have delivered to the house every day. From my periphery, I can see he’s dressed for the day in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, and I’m just thankful that he’s obviously going out, so that I can lose my shit in peace.
As the microwave hums, I allow my gaze to lift, taking in Brookes’ form from behind. The black athletic shorts he wears tug tight around his ass and thighs. The dark gray t-shirt stretches over his broad back and wide shoulders. And don’t even get me started on the navy backwards ball cap. I swear, the gods are against me.
“So, I think we need to talk about last night.”
Brookes turns around and I almost fall right off my stool,snapping my head down so fast like I was looking at my laptop this whole time and not at his perfectly round, firm bubble butt.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about…” I say the words so fast that they’re nothing but a mess of syllables strung together coming out of my lips.
“Last night,” he says, leaning over and resting his forearms on the island opposite me.
Heat creeps up my chest, my neck, and onto my cheeks, my face flaming. “Can we just pretend it never happened…” I bury my face in my hands with a groan.
