“Here.” He holds out his palm. “Thought you could use some ibuprofen.”
“Thank you.” I force a grin. When the tips of my fingers brush against his palm, a memory of those callused hands gliding across my body in the dark assaults me, followed by another. This time it’s an image of him pinching and tugging on my nipples. The next is a flash of him cupping my ass and holding me tight against his body.
I throw back the pills and snatch the bottle of water he’s also holding so I can wash them—and my memories—down.
Brushing past him, I fumble for words. “Umm.” How the hell do I even phrase this question? If I flat-out ask if we hooked up, will it make me look like a slut? Will he be offended if I can’t remember having sex with him? Holy crap. I should grab my stuff and go. But where is my stuff?
I scan the room but come up empty.
Without a word, Cam shuffles to the closet and pulls my dress out.
“Oh, thanks,” I say when I grab the hanger. “I, um…”Just ask. “Did we, um…” I wag a finger between us.
“Did we…?” He scratches at his jaw, his brows raised.
That bastard’s going to make me say it, isn’t he?
Collecting my hair over one shoulder, I stand tall. “Did we hook up last night?” I gnaw on the inside of my cheek and close my eyes. This vulnerability will eat me alive if he doesn’t answer right away.
He takes a step closer. “Call me old-fashioned, but one doesn’t have sex with women who are unconscious.”
“I wasuncon—Wait. Did you just quoteThe Holiday?”
The playful smirk that tugs at his lips tugs at my core too. He shrugs. “It’s my favorite movie.”
“No.” I toss my hair behind my shoulder, annoyed by the way he affects me. “It can’t be your favorite movie because it’s my favorite movie.” I dig a thumb into my chest for emphasis.
“You can’t call dibs on a favorite movie,” he says, crossing his arms, making his pecs flex in the hottest way.
All of a sudden, I’m acutely aware that I’m not wearing a bra. Damn my traitorous nipples. They’ve been painfully hard since I opened the bathroom door and came face to face with his chest. I cross my arms in front of me, too, the clothes hanger scraping against my skin in the process. “Well, I just did.The Holidayismymovie. I watch it on Christmas Eve every year, then again on New Year’s Eve. Why do you like it so much?” Usually guys go for action movies likeDie HardorTop Gunor something set in World War II.
He lifts his chin and inspects the ceiling, as if summoning an answer. “I may be sentimental, but there’s something about second chances that gets me. The possibility that anything can happen.” When he says those last couple of words, he homes in on me, his eyes heated and his expression serious.
The air around us crackles with energy in a way I’ve never experienced as he holds me hostage with just that look.
That was not the answer I was expecting. I sway on the balls of my feet a bit, and Cam takes a step closer, his toes brushing against mine. He towers over me, giving off major Daddy Jude Law vibes behind those tortoise-shell glasses.God dammit. Is he hiding two adorable little girls with British accents, too, because my ovaries will not be able to take it.
I’m still holding my dress between us like a shield, as if the silky fabric could protect my heart from beating out of my chest.
He takes the dress from my grasp and hangs it on the doorknob behind me. Then, featherlight, he skims his hands down my arms until his thumbs rest on my pulse points. I duck my chin, avoiding the way he’s staring into my soul. But there’s no hiding the goose bumps he just set off.
“Hey,” he rasps. “Look at me.”
I can’t. I have the sudden desire to flee, but my feet are glued to the floor.
“Joey.” He tries again, squeezing my wrists.
I try not to inspect his happy trail on my way up, but it’s impossible. It’s just begging to be appreciated. At least I resist the urge to run my fingers through the dark hair. When I finally look him in the eye, he hits me with a dazzling, devastating smile.
I push away the spark that arcs between us. Far, far away. Fuck, I need fresh air. And coffee. Stat.
“Come get coffee with me,” he says, surprising me with his mind-reading abilities. It’s not a request.
“I can’t get coffee in this.” I tug at the hem of the shirt that hits me mid-thigh. “Or that,” I say, nodding at the dress I wore last night. If I showed up for coffee wearing that, every person I passed would gawk and make assumptions about how my night went.
“Then I’ll walk you to your room and wait for you to change.” Again, his words are not a request. “What’s your room number?” he asks, tugging a T-shirt over his head. He looks at himself in the mirror, then swipes a hat off the counter.
Fuck. Me. He puts the damn thing on backward.
