For the Plot (All for Love #1)

Chapter 19

19

Josefine

My body’s best efforts to remain in slumber are no match for the rays of the sun streaming in through our window. Millie’s obsessed with her blackout shades in the city, so a brightly lit room is the last thing I expect when I finally crack one eye open. Damn. I slam it shut again. My mouth is as dry as the Sahara Desert, and as I lift my head to reposition myself, a bolt of pain shoots down my neck. When I settle again, my nose rubs up against something hard. Maybe my phone? Did I forget to plug it in last night? I use my fingers to walk my hand toward the object, but I’m met with the corded veins of a forearm instead.

What the? —

I blink my eyes open, though my left lid is glued shut, so it takes a moment for it to cooperate.

“Good morning, gorgeous,” a dreamy voice croons.

That’s it. I’m definitely dreaming. Why else would I be lying next to him ? Maybe if I doze off again, I’ll wake up later and find myself in my own hotel room.

I bury my face in my pillow, refusing to peek at my surroundings, but the feel of the bed dipping next to me proves I’m not dreaming.

Motherfucker. Not again.

Keeping my eyes closed, I run through the events of last night.

Pictures with Millie.

Karaoke.

Kissing Cam in his office.

Running out of his office.

Bumping into Millie and Ezra. (I’ll revisit that one later.)

Nik.

The raki. Damn that Grecian elixir.

If I’m in his bed, that must mean…

I bolt upright and throw off the covers, slapping my palms to my chest and abdomen. Okay, not naked. That’s good. Only I’m not in my own clothes. I pull at the soft black fabric clinging to my damp skin. I pat my thighs. No pants, but I’m still wearing underwear. That’s good too.

“You okay?” Cam taps my knee.

Am I? I rub my eyes and lick my lips, trying to reactivate my salivary glands. What the hell does my face look like right now? I need to find the bathroom.

I tumble out of bed, nearly dragging the duvet with me. The abrupt movement sends pain slicing through my head.

He calls my name, but I ignore him and make a beeline for the bathroom. Once I’m safely hidden in the tiled room, I throw the lock and step up to the mirror over the sink.

I look surprisingly not repulsive. Huh. Though the red-rimmed eyes and smudged mascara aren’t exactly a good look. I moisten a washcloth under the faucet, then gently wash my face.

From there, I do something I’m not proud of. I borrow Cam’s toothbrush. Once I’ve brushed the grime from my teeth, I run my fingers through my hair, then toss back two full glasses of water from the tap. Feeling fifty percent more refreshed, I investigate downstairs , rubbing a hand along the apex of my thighs. While there are no obvious signs of funny business, one can never be too sure.

Next, I pee, then rub a little soap under my armpits. I’m examining myself in the mirror again when Cam knocks on the door.

“Joey? Are you okay?”

Stomach roiling—from the raki, yes, but also because I freaking woke up in his bed—I open the door.

The sight before me makes my knees wobble. I throw my hands out to steady myself on the doorjamb and focus on breathing. Damn. He’s dressed in nothing but a pair of athletic shorts that sit low on his hips. His bare chest is toned, and he’s got that damn V that points right to his?—

My mouth is the opposite of dry now.

“Hmm?” is all I can muster up, though I do steady myself enough to take a step back. Standing so close to this man when he’s half-naked is nothing but dangerous.

His eyes glow behind his glasses. This is a sight I never thought I’d see again. And it’s one I should not be seeing right now. He props his elbow against the doorframe and rests his head against his hand. The move makes his tattooed bicep flex in a way that makes my core clench and my blood heat.

“Here.” He holds out his palm. “Thought you could use some ibuprofen.”

“Thank you.” I force a grin. When the tips of my fingers brush against his palm, a memory of those callused hands gliding across my body in the dark assaults me, followed by another. This time it’s an image of him pinching and tugging on my nipples. The next is a flash of him cupping my ass and holding me tight against his body .

I throw back the pills and snatch the bottle of water he’s also holding so I can wash them—and my memories—down.

Brushing past him, I fumble for words. “Umm.” How the hell do I even phrase this question? If I flat-out ask if we hooked up, will it make me look like a slut? Will he be offended if I can’t remember having sex with him? Holy crap. I should grab my stuff and go. But where is my stuff?

I scan the room but come up empty.

Without a word, Cam shuffles to the closet and pulls my dress out.

“Oh, thanks,” I say when I grab the hanger. “I, um…” Just ask . “Did we, um…” I wag a finger between us.

“Did we…?” He scratches at his jaw, his brows raised.

That bastard’s going to make me say it, isn’t he?

Collecting my hair over one shoulder, I stand tall. “Did we hook up last night?” I gnaw on the inside of my cheek and close my eyes. This vulnerability will eat me alive if he doesn’t answer right away.

He takes a step closer. “Call me old-fashioned, but one doesn’t have sex with women who are unconscious.”

“I was uncon— Wait. Did you just quote The Holiday ?”

The playful smirk that tugs at his lips tugs at my core too. He shrugs. “It’s my favorite movie.”

“No.” I toss my hair behind my shoulder, annoyed by the way he affects me. “It can’t be your favorite movie because it’s my favorite movie.” I dig a thumb into my chest for emphasis.

“You can’t call dibs on a favorite movie,” he says, crossing his arms, making his pecs flex in the hottest way.

All of a sudden, I’m acutely aware that I’m not wearing a bra. Damn my traitorous nipples. They’ve been painfully hard since I opened the bathroom door and came face to face with his chest. I cross my arms in front of me, too, the clothes hanger scraping against my skin in the process. “Well, I just did. The Holiday is my movie. I watch it on Christmas Eve every year, then again on New Year’s Eve. Why do you like it so much?” Usually guys go for action movies like Die Hard or Top Gun or something set in World War II.

He lifts his chin and inspects the ceiling, as if summoning an answer. “I may be sentimental, but there’s something about second chances that gets me. The possibility that anything can happen.” When he says those last couple of words, he homes in on me, his eyes heated and his expression serious.

The air around us crackles with energy in a way I’ve never experienced as he holds me hostage with just that look.

That was not the answer I was expecting. I sway on the balls of my feet a bit, and Cam takes a step closer, his toes brushing against mine. He towers over me, giving off major Daddy Jude Law vibes behind those tortoise-shell glasses . God dammit. Is he hiding two adorable little girls with British accents, too, because my ovaries will not be able to take it.

I’m still holding my dress between us like a shield, as if the silky fabric could protect my heart from beating out of my chest.

He takes the dress from my grasp and hangs it on the doorknob behind me. Then, featherlight, he skims his hands down my arms until his thumbs rest on my pulse points. I duck my chin, avoiding the way he’s staring into my soul. But there’s no hiding the goose bumps he just set off.

“Hey,” he rasps. “Look at me.”

I can’t. I have the sudden desire to flee, but my feet are glued to the floor.

“Joey.” He tries again, squeezing my wrists.

I try not to inspect his happy trail on my way up, but it’s impossible. It’s just begging to be appreciated. At least I resist the urge to run my fingers through the dark hair. When I finally look him in the eye, he hits me with a dazzling, devastating smile .

I push away the spark that arcs between us. Far, far away. Fuck, I need fresh air. And coffee. Stat.

“Come get coffee with me,” he says, surprising me with his mind-reading abilities. It’s not a request.

“I can’t get coffee in this.” I tug at the hem of the shirt that hits me mid-thigh. “Or that,” I say, nodding at the dress I wore last night. If I showed up for coffee wearing that, every person I passed would gawk and make assumptions about how my night went.

“Then I’ll walk you to your room and wait for you to change.” Again, his words are not a request. “What’s your room number?” he asks, tugging a T-shirt over his head. He looks at himself in the mirror, then swipes a hat off the counter.

Fuck. Me. He puts the damn thing on backward.

“Yup, okay, let’s go!” I say, my heart rate spiking instantly at the sight. If I stay in this room—with this man; with that hat; with this bed; with no pants—we’re going to have a major problem.

I pluck my dress from the chair, then spin for the hotel door. Cam’s standing beside it, cradling my shoes and clutch. I take them from him and search for my phone and room key.

“Dammit, my phone’s dead. Millie’s probably so worried.”

“Nah, I texted her,” he says, sliding his feet into a pair of leather sandals.

My spine goes ramrod straight. “You texted her? How do you have her number?”

“She added it to my contacts when she gave me yours last night.” He saunters to the door and holds it open with a warm smile.

I suck in a breath as I pass him, trying hard as hell not to make any contact whatsoever.

This is a walk of shame if I ever saw one. Cam, looking way too effervescent and put together, even without a morning shave, next to me, barefoot and clothed in a man’s shirt .

“What room?” he asks again.

“Umm, 6206.”

“What?” he asks, catching the toe of his sandal on the carpet and stumbling.

“What?” I side-eye him.

For a second, I swear a flicker of disbelief, or maybe amazement, crosses his face.

“Nothing.” With that, he picks up his pace a little and leads the way to the elevators.

Thankfully, we don’t pass a soul as we stroll to the end of the hall. I place my card against the sensor on the door, ignoring the Do Not Disturb sign hanging on the handle, and push my way into my room.