Good Girl (Love Unexpectedly 2)

Perfect.

Did I put on my smallest bikini just to torture him? Maybe.

But the joke’s on me, because I had absolutely not been preparing for him to return the “favor,” and now in addition to the memory of his hot kiss, I’ve got visions of his ripped body haunting my every move.

The guy’s not pretty. In fact, just about the only pretty thing about him is those long, curly eyelashes. But his upper body is perfectly sculpted, with just enough meat on him to look real.

And unlike so many of the prissy guys in L.A., Noah’s got chest hair. A light sprinkling of golden brown chest hair I want to feel scraping against my chest as he plunges into me.

I flop on my bed and throw my arms over my head.

This is a disaster. A hormonally charged disaster.

I’ve turned the AC unit in my room off for a few minutes, wanting to get some fresh air in here with the windows open. Fresh is a stretch, though. There’s a definite heat wave happening—the hot, swampy kind of heat that usually doesn’t settle over the South until August.

But the open window means that I hear Ranger’s happy bark out front just before I hear the jangle of keys and a man’s low whistle mingling in with the quiet night noises of rural Louisiana.

I frown. Noah’s left the house a few times, but always during the day and, best I can tell, always to run errands. He’s even picked up groceries a few times for me, although I suspect that’s more because he doesn’t want to deal with me and my wig again.

But he’s never left at night, and suddenly I’m desperate to know where he’s going.

Specifically, if he’s going to see a woman.

He’s never mentioned a girlfriend, but then, he doesn’t mention much. And let’s be honest—a guy doesn’t kiss like that without some experience.

Jealousy, hot and bitter, curls in my stomach.

I bolt off the bed and stick my head out the window. “Hey.”

He’s just jerked open the truck door, but he glances up warily at my greeting. “What?”

So pleasant, this one.

“Where are you going?”

“None of your business. I don’t work for you, remember?”

“Can I come?” I ask, testing him.

“Nope.”

Definitely a woman, then. The jealousy goes from a small ember to a full-on flame.

I purse my lips. “Can I watch your TV?”

He loops an arm through the open truck window as he studies me. I can’t be sure in the darkening sky, but his hair looks slightly damp, like he just showered, and though he’s wearing his usual jeans, he’s got on a checked button-down instead of the usual T-shirt.

“I thought you were on an information diet,” he says, not bothering to keep the mockery out of his voice.

“What’s that have to do with watching TV?”

“How do I know you won’t be glued to E! or some shit, and then I’ll come home and find you blubbering after you see something about yourself you don’t like?”

I feel a little surge of panic. “Am I on E!?”

I’ve been doing a remarkable job not dwelling on what people might or might not be saying about me. Whenever the thought creeps into my head I convince myself that the story’s likely blown over by now.

But now I’m realizing it could be the opposite—that the story could have escalated. My parents and Amber are all in favor of me stepping out of the spotlight, so they wouldn’t tell me if something was going on.