Consolation Prize (Forbidden Men 9)

Realizing how weird I was being, I exhaled and straightened my spine, entering the living room at a normal pace, only to fall to a stop with my mouth hanging open.

Oh, yeah. He was most definitely still here, passed out on my couch like some kind of sun god. The jerk. And yes, I really had to call him a jerk right now. Anyone who looked that good while they were sleeping shouldn’t be allowed to be anything but a jerk. There had to be some kind of balance in the universe.

He wore nothing but blue jeans. His bare feet were draped over the end of one armrest while he nestled his cheek on the other end. I unwillingly felt a moment of kinship with him for taking off his socks—I hated wearing socks to bed—only to scowl that thought away when my gaze made it to his chest.

But really? A guy as slim as him should not have that defined of a chest, especially when he was sleeping and could in no way be flexing his muscles.

Jerk.

Easing closer, I saw he was clutching his hand to his heart, but upon close inspection, I realized he was actually holding something. His keys? Well, maybe not a key, exactly, but something dangling from his keychain. Squinting, I shifted even closer still to see. It was some kind of tube thing; his fingers covered most of the can until I realized it was breath spray.

Rolling my eyes, I groaned. Dear Lord, he must really worry about bad morning breath if he slept clutching a bottle of breath spray.

Big ego much?

But then I noticed the other item hanging from his keychain and resting against the backs of his knuckles. He had an old, tattered and really cheesy rabbit’s foot.

It reminded me of my grandma Cicely. She followed all kinds of hoodoo traditions like whipping up homemade powders for healing and luck, and using animals’ body parts to attain success and power. She still hung blue bottles from trees outside her house to trap evil spirits in. And she hadn’t let me go off to college without a Bible and protective amulet.

Thinking of her while looking at him made all kinds of soft feelings bud inside me. But I nodded to combat those. We weren’t friends. He wasn’t here because he liked me; he was here to fulfill some civic duty toward all women.

Bolstered with that thought, I nudged one of his jean-clad shins with my bare toe. “Hey.”

The guy didn’t even stir.

So I repeated the action, speaking a little louder and nudging a little harder. “Hey!”

He jerked. “What! Fuck!” Eyes springing open, he panted out his shock until he could focus on me. Then he moaned out a sound of supreme disappointment and scowled before reclosing his eyes. “Jesus Christ, scare the shit out of me, why don’t you. What time is it?”

“Morning,” I said, having no clue. For once in my life, I hadn’t been checking the time every two minutes as I’d gotten ready for classes. I’d been too concerned to know if he was still here. “Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?”

I could see why he’d kept off the jacket and even removed the hoodie, but to strip all the layers? If he was just playing with me, I was going to be…

Well, honestly, I was pretty grateful. But I’d have to act pissed.

One of his eyes reopened to glare at me. I had to admit, it was impressive. I’d always thought glaring was exclusively a two-eyed thing, but he managed it perfectly with just that one.

“Hate sleeping in shirts,” he mumbled before grumbling out another sound and reluctantly sitting up to run his hand through his hair.

Damn, his hair looked fetching when it was messy first thing in the morning.

The jerk.

“Hate sleeping in pants too,” he added with a two-eyed scowl this time. “But I kept them on. For you. You’re welcome.”

I didn’t respond, crossing my arms over my chest as I stared down at him. “I can’t believe you really slept here the entire night.”

“Yeah.” He smacked his lips. “While your gush of appreciation over the fact that I put myself out there to make sure you stayed safe is endearing, do you have some orange juice or something? My mouth tastes like ass.”

I eyed his hand. “Says the guy who sleeps with a bottle of breath spray against his heart.”

He glanced down in surprise and opened his palm to look at the tiny bottle as if he hadn’t known it’d been there. Then he shrugged. “It’s empty.”

My eyebrows lifted. “Have you considered throwing it away and buying a new one?”

Colton’s gaze sprang to me before he blinked as if I’d suggested he throw out a lung instead. “It was a gift,” he finally answered, still staring with that insulted, scandalized gawk.

I wasn’t sure what to say to that. Who kept around an empty bottle of breath spray because it’d been a gift?