Claim My Baby (Crescent Cove 2)

I closed his lips with my fingers, surprised at how easy it was to smile with him. Even easier than it was to snark or toss insults. “Shut up.”

We went back into the bedroom and he cleaned up the sheet and me, though I told him I would just take a shower. But he was insistent, and then he told me why.

Apparently, broken condoms don’t always break cleanly. Sometimes pieces get left behind.

Yeah, you guessed it. My heretofore untested love canal had possibly been strewn with the perils of hasty sex. Or improper condom usage, which was probably closer to it.

Next time, I’d just let him handle the latex and I’d take notes. If there was a next time.

There had almost been one when he’d been performing the surprisingly unhideous cavity search. He’d managed to make it arousing. He made everything arousing, which was how I’d ended up coming by the end of it.

All’s well that ends well, right?

We showered and he returned to his room to get his suitcases. Seemed stupid for him to be so far away, when I pretty much wanted him to live inside me.

Over the top? Not so much. I had a lot of time to make up for.

“I feel like we should compromise on the day’s activities,” he said over lunch in yet another restaurant, this one with an open-air patio that let me take picture after picture of the palm trees, and the pedestrian with the fun, jaunty hat, and the cool vintage cars that rolled past. Vegas was a whirlwind, and I wanted lots of images for my journal.

Pictures of Oliver weren’t a must, since I could take those any old time. But he was wearing a Hawaiian shirt purchased at the same boutique we’d gotten my bikini—still had a skirt, so whatever—and I figured I’d probably never see him in it again. He kept pulling at the collar and saying things like “thank God no one knows me here” and “is it bikini time yet?”

I’d bribed him to buy the shirt with offers of swimsuit modeling. I was still wrapping my mind around having a bikini-worthy body, never mind this insanely attractive man being willing to subject himself to his version of fashion suicide just for the chance to see me in one.

I only took a couple photos of him in his new threads. The pictures might not even make it into my journal.

Well, the one with him sitting with his chin propped on his hand as if he was contemplating weighty issues definitely would. I’d almost uploaded it to Facebook and Instagram.

Oliver Hamilton, pondering life.

Since I valued my well-being, I’d stopped short of doing so, however.

After setting down my phone, I picked up one half of my chicken salad sandwich and nibbled a corner. “What kind of compromises are we talking about here, Hamilton?”

“The kind where if I have to see a fake Elvis, you have to wear that bikini for approximately twelve hours straight.”

I hid my smile behind my sandwich. “Not seeing how that’s an equivalent trade.”

“You would if you knew how I felt about Elvis impersonators,” he muttered.

“You should have more respect for the King. Besides, they’re part of the entire Vegas experience. When Ross and Rachel got married—”

“Dear God, not that again.”

I sniffed. “Last night you were trying to wrangle a date with me to watch every episode. Is the bloom off the rose now that you’ve thoroughly plowed through mine?”

His grin was dazzling. “Is that what I did?”

“No. Shut up.” I tore off a piece of my crust and flung it at him, giggling and ducking as he tossed it back.

“I wasn’t trying to wrangle a date with you, by the way.”

“You so were.” I smirked. “It was funny seeing you trying to act casual.”

“You were screwing with me on purpose?”

“No. I would never screw with you.” Deliberately, I lingered over the last three words, and his eyes heated as if we were alone and naked.

“Lies. All lies. You’ve been screwing with me since the day we met.” His voice had lowered to match mine.