Mr. Perfectly Wrong (Alphalicious Billionaires Boss 5)

Stephanie

“Oh shit.” I know that’s not a good way to wake someone up. In fact, it’s probably a guaranteed way to really worry them, but I can’t help it. This is truly an oh shit kind of moment.

Adam jerks awake. His eyes flutter open, and he squints up at me. I think I’m blocking most of the sun, but I probably look like a shadowy

apparition to him. He blinks hard. It’s bright out—retina scalding bright. I can tell he’s momentarily disoriented, then he props himself up on one elbow and looks around. He realizes we’re on a beach. That we fell asleep because we had what was possibly the world’s worst sleep last night.

“What’s going on?” His eyes move back to me, and his pinched frown tells me he’s worried we’re being mugged or that there’s a hurricane bearing down on us.

All I can do is to point at his chest. He slowly follows my finger, his head tilting down, and then he lets out a sigh. He pokes himself in the chest and winces before letting out a hiss of breath.

“Oh shit,” he states flatly.

“Yeah. You obviously fell asleep before you spread the sunscreen on. It’s crazy hot out here, and the sun is really strong.”

“Strong enough to burn.” That’s stating the obvious.

Adam’s face, chest, and legs that weren’t covered by his shorts are pretty red. Not nearly as red as my dress, but an angry pink. In the middle of his chest is literally a big, not pink but not white either, glop mark, and part of a handprint. Like that’s the only place the sunscreen ended up. He likely lathered up his hand, slapped it there, and promptly fell asleep without working it in anywhere else. That has to be what happened because it wouldn’t make sense otherwise.

Adam pokes his chest again. His forehead crinkles, and he lets out another hiss of breath. “Ouch,” he says, even though it’s obviously redundant.

“I bet.” I study him sympathetically.

I haven’t burned that often, at least not that bad, but I remember the few times I did, it really hurt. It’s an annoying kind of pain that keeps buzzing along all your nerves since you have to carry it with you wherever you go. You can’t just put some ointment, wrap a bandage around it, be careful not to use it, and call it a day. Not like when you burn your finger or give yourself a papercut.

“I can walk to the park office and see if they have any aloe vera gel.”

“Doubtful.”

“Then the store that was connected to the off-sale where we got the beer. I’ll walk there.”

“It’s ridiculously far.”

“That’s okay. We’ll pack up the campsite and drive to the cabin, assuming it’s ready, which it must be if you got the key already. I’ll unpack, and you can take a cold shower and lie down.”

It seems like a sound plan, and Adam just nods in agreement. He rolls off the towel, picks it up, and we walk back to the campsite together. I’m sure every step must hurt, that the stinging and burning and the heat of his pink skin must be fully embedded into Adam’s consciousness, but he doesn’t say anything.

He helps me pack up the campsite—messily, but that’s okay—into the car trunk, which seems to have shrunk since I saw it last, then slides in behind the wheel and consults the paper map the park office gave him. He sets it aside, starts the car, and drives us deftly there, avoiding all the holes and bumps in the gravel road. I don’t point out that if he’s looking to prove to himself all the things he’s good at, navigating a sports car with half an inch clearance around somewhere that’s only fit for trucks and SUV’s is a feat all in itself. Also, finding the cabin just by looking at a really crude paper map that looks like it was drawn by a five-year-old who had no notion of what he was doing and just put a bunch of random buildings and crap all over the place is really impressive, and Adam doesn’t get lost. He takes us straight to the cabin.

I take the key from the dash and go to investigate. The cabin is small. And not log. Just some kind of place painted wretched brown, and it’s not new or nice. But still. It’s pretty much paradise at the moment.

I push open the door, not expecting much judging from the exterior, but I’m impressed. It’s not modern or nice, but it is homey in here. The walls and ceilings are blonde-stained wood. There’s low pile grey carpeting on the floor and a living room and kitchen combined into one. A couch, a small table with three chairs, a fridge, a stove, and a counter with a tiny sink that looks like it was taken from an RV at one time, and token faded pictures of fish complete the first bit. I kick off my flip-flops and walk to the door at the far left down the tiny hall that juts past the living room. There’s a bathroom with a sink, toilet, and the kind of shower stall that also looks industrial like it might have been borrowed from a previous life because it fit in the tiny space. But it’s still indoor plumbing and our own shower, and I’m thrilled to see it. There’s only one more door, and when I push that open, I’m surprised to find a bedroom with a queen-sized bed with no headboard or footboard, a beat-up wood nightstand, and a small dresser that looks like it’s being held up by hope and a prayer.

Which is fine. It would all be fine. Except there’s just one bed.

I don’t know how I feel about that.

Fine, I can imagine feeling pretty good doing a few things on it with Adam, but I know I’m not supposed to be considering that, so I cut off any such emotions about pleasure immediately. I’ll take the couch. It’s big and upholstered, and it looks as comfortable as the bed.

I hope.

Why didn’t I agree to go home when Adam told me he’d take me back?

Hmm, I don’t want to think about that either, because it’s trouble, and I think since we got here, we’ve had enough trouble and mishaps to fill up a whole month.

“It’s alright?”

I startle, jumping on the spot and spinning around like I was just caught doing something terrible even though I was just standing here looking. I didn’t hear Adam come up behind me.