He flips onto his side and props his fist under his cheek. “I tucked the wild boy into bed, and old Ursula wasn’t much in the mood for conversation thanks to her self-induced diabetic coma. And to think you left her in charge,” he adds with a sigh and a reproachful shake of his head.
“That doesn’t answer what you’re doing in here. In my bedroom. In my bed.”
“I thought I’d see where the action happens.”
I almost snort because the only action this room sees is thanks to that book. “Well, you’ve seen, so you can get out of my bed now, Goldilocks.”
In one lithe twist, he’s on his back once more, his lean frame stretched out along the bed in all its delicious glory. “Yeah, I don’t think I will. I’m just getting to the good parts.” His face disappears behind the cover of the book again. Then I realise that the point of the whole manoeuvre wasn’t for me to shout at him but for me to see what he’s reading. I think I might gasp or maybe growl because he adds, “I can see why this one is well thumbed.”
Only Roman Phillips could’ve made that sound so dirty. He also hits the nail on the head because that book is a favourite of mine. It is well thumbed, though maybe not quite what you’d call a one-handed read. Not completely. Just some of my favourite parts. Don’t judge. I’ve been single for a hell of a while.
“You need to leave.” I turn away, putting my tea on the dresser, my heart beating so wildly it almost hurts. This feels so unfair to crave what you can’t have—what I can’t admit. Muted stripes of moonlight and shadow fall over the dresser thanks to the open blinds, a lacy doily holding a singular bottle of perfume. I wonder what I must look like to him. Dull probably, in my bedroom of dark wood old lady furniture, a brass bedstead complete with a patchwork quilt. He’d probably laugh his ass off if he knew my usual bedtime ritual was a cup of hot tea, a slathering of cold cream, and a few pages of a good book. And, yes, okay, I am embarrassed that he’s outed my dirty reading choices, but the worst of it is, it’s his reappearance in my life that’s made that copy of The Lady Watches so well used.
“‘Lady Arabella De Whitt,” Roman intones, reading from the back cover, “is on her way to join her fiancé in the Americas when the dastardly pirate, Captain Mac, captures more than just her ship.’ I’ll say he did,” he adds, his voice velvety.
I yank on the dresser drawer, annoyed and not trusting myself to look at him. I stare at the contents, wondering why the hell I open it because now I have to either put something in or take something out.
No way I’m pulling my pyjamas out, not while he watches on.
My head rises slowly to the dresser mirror, and oh my heart, he looks good in my bed. Gorgeous and far more tempting than he has any right to be. I sense cotton under my hand and look down at the pile of folded cotton panties, all colours and patterns and so unlike this evening’s underwear choice. Dangerous, that’s what Roman Phillips is. Dangerous to my heart and my health because, while I refused to acknowledge this to myself earlier, it wasn’t Drew I was thinking of as I pulled a black lace set from this drawer.
Man, I am so screwed.
Oh, you wish, whispers a little voice inside my head.
“I didn’t invite you here,” I murmur, lowering my gaze and sliding the drawer closed.
“Does anyone ever get invited to this hallowed inner sanctum?” I pivot back, a retort balanced on the end of my tongue. A retort forgotten, swallowed at the pained look he seems to wear. He’s even more tempting when he’s being vulnerable, which is just colossally unfair. “Has Drew ever been invited?”
“That has nothing to do with you.”
“You know that’s not true.”
My heart gives a brief pang. “It’s been a long day, Roman.” A long night, not that I’d admit it to him. I feel really shitty about myself because I don’t enjoy stringing Drew along, but I couldn’t exactly tell him he does nothing for me. Nothing in the tingles department, nothing much to report in the emotional feels, either. Not like the man sprawled on my bed because he evokes, no, he provokes all kinds of reactions in me.
“You know I’m right, Kennedy. But you won’t even admit it to yourself.”
“As delightful as it was to find you here,” I retort airily, “it really is time for you to leave.”
“What? You’re not gonna offer me a little something for my time? Services rendered and all that.”