Page 94 of The Backup Plan

I’m pressed up against him and before I realize it, he shifts over dramatically and shoves a pillow between us.

“What are you doing?” I laugh.

“Respecting your boundaries. No touching. No flirting. No kissing.” He turns on his side so that his cheek is pressing into the pillow, but his eyes are looking straight at me. “That last one is killing me, Doc. Pretty sure you need to have your medical bag or whatever it’s called on standby in case I keel over from all this respecting of you.”

“You’re being ridiculous, Lucas,” I say.

But that is what I want, right?

I should appreciate that he’s trying to do right by me. That I clearly drew a line when I walked away from our kiss the other night and that he’s respecting it.

He smiles at me. It’s sweet and soft and I want to sink into everything about him. He reaches out and puts his hand on the pillow between us. I link my fingers with his without thinking.

“This is way better than orange slices and Gatorade,” he murmurs.

“What?” I laugh. Orange slices and Gatorade?

He shakes his head ever so slightly. “Nothing,” he murmurs as his eyes begin to flutter closed.

Get up. Go home.

But I don’t listen to the voice in my head. The one of self-preservation. Instead, I lie there, wide awake, heart pounding, fully aware that this—him—is the problem.

Because now that I’ve seen this version of Lucas Hale? I don’t know how I’m supposed to resist him.

Lucas

I wake up with her scent on my pillows.

My head might be pounding like a kick drum, but I can definitely smell that. Soap. Clean. Some citrusy perfume that shouldn’t feel intimate but does.

For a split second before my brain catches up to my nose, I think she’s still here.

Then I open my eyes—wince at the bright sunlight cutting through the open blinds—to find the room empty. More specifically, the spot in bed beside me empty.

I roll onto my back and take stock. Woman? Gone. Shoulder? Aching. Head? Pounding like a motherfucker. Mouth? Tastes like cotton.

Maybe it’s better she didn’t see me like this. Hungover. Dragging ass.

Then again, she did see you in rare form last night. I drag a hand over my face. Last night. Ugh.

But first, I need water.

And when I roll on my side to get out of bed, there’s a glass of water on my nightstand, a bottle of Gatorade, and two ibuprofen set neatly beside them.

There’s also my cell phone. Plugged in. Alarm already set—Film Review. 8:30 a.m.—to go off in ten minutes.

I chuckle and scrub a hand down my face. Of course, she did.

She didn’t leave a note though. She didn’t linger. She simply took care of me in a way I can’t say anyone ever has.

Kind of like I did to her that first night.

That’s food for fucking thought.

With a sigh, I close my eyes. Fragments of last night drift back in flashes.

Her mismatched pajamas.