The Wedding Wrecker

16. Emma

16

EMMA

" Y ou made out with the wedding wrecker?" Maggie's shriek made me hold the phone away from my ear. "The same guy who destroyed your career? The one you had hot wine cellar sex with right before he ruined everything? Actually, no. We're doing this face to face. FaceTime me right now."

"I'm in bed," I whispered.

"Even better. I want to see your guilty face when you tell me everything. And maybe catch a glimpse of Mr. Muscles in the background."

"He's in the shower." But I switched to video anyway, if only to see Maggie's expression when I filled her in.

Her face popped up on screen, brown eyes wide with excitement. Maggie and I were college dorm mates, way back when I was taking business classes and still thought I wanted to run a real estate empire. She took most of the same classes, and now she was using her business degree to run a coffee flavor-blasting business from her garage. Basically, she worked up delicious mixtures that came in “shot tubes,” which were, of course, biodegradable. Her customers could dump one into their coffee to supercharge it.

The business wasn’t exactly an overnight success, but she seemed happy enough and said this was shaping up to be her best year yet.

She pushed up her glasses, leaning closer to the camera and squinting, as if she was inspecting me for clues. Maggie looked a bit nerdy at first glance—with big eyes and a rounded face with full cheeks. Beneath the bookish exterior, she was wild, and the life of every social event I’d ever been to with her.

"Okay, spill,” she said. “Start with how he showed up. And don't skip the abs—are they still spectacular?"

I glanced at the closed bathroom door, where the shower was still running. "I'm not discussing his abs."

"So that's a yes." She leaned closer to her phone. "Your face is all flushed. Oh my god, did you just?—"

"No! We just... kissed."

"Just kissed? Your lips are swollen. That was not 'just' kissing." Her words took on a British accent. “You just got propa’ ravaged, darlin’. You sure you aren’t pregnant already?”

I touched my mouth self-consciously. "It got a little... intense."

"Define intense. And why did it stop? Please tell me you're not still hung up on the Ireland thing."

"He explained about his wife?—"

"Woah, woah. Back the train up. Rewind the tape. Wife???”

"Ex-wife. She cheated on him. With his brother."

"Holy shit."

"Yeah." I lowered my voice. "That's why he does what he does. Exposing cheaters and otherwise sneaky, undeserving people at weddings. He thinks it's better than letting people go through with the vows."

"Okay, that's... actually kind of noble? In a completely fucked up way? Also explains why he's so hot. Tragic backstory and hot guys go better together than peanut butter and jelly—and you know how much I respect the PB&J, so I don’t say that lightly."

"That's the problem. He makes sense when he explains it. And then he kisses me and I can't think at all."

"Sounds like you need to kiss him more. You know, for clarity."

"This isn't funny."

"It's a little funny. You're sharing a bed with the gorgeous guy who broke your heart, and now you're getting all hot and bothered about his tragic past. It's like a Hallmark movie but with more sexual tension." She paused. "How is the shared bed thing going? Have you guys had your ha ha, oops, did I just penetrate you moment yet?”

"Um, I’m pretty sure that’s not a thing. Although, I did kind of... mount him in my sleep once."

Maggie choked on whatever she was drinking. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I was asleep! And he was just... there. All warm and... there. I guess my body was acting out my dream or something. I can’t explain it, and I’ve never had something like this happen before."

"Please tell me there's video."

"I hate you. And of course there’s not video. Why would there be video?"

"No, you don't hate me. But seriously, Em. What are you going to do? You've got what, another week of sharing a room with him? Plus all those cute winter activities you planned..."

"Don't remind me. There's the sleigh ride tomorrow, and ice skating after that..."

"Ooh, lots of opportunities for him to wrap his arms around you. Show you how to balance..."

"I know how to ice skate."

"He doesn't need to know that."

The shower cut off. "I have to go."

"Use protection! Actually, why bother? It’s not every day you have a chance to get injected with premium, top-shelf genetic material. Think of the beautiful babies his batter would make. And Emma?"

"Yeah?"

"Maybe this time actually talk to him before jumping straight to the naked parts?"

"I'm hanging up now."

"Love you too. Call me after the next makeout session, or if you want to talk baby names!"

I ended the call just as the bathroom door opened. Steam billowed out around James as he emerged in just his sweats, water still beading on his chest and abs that were, fine, yes, still spectacular. A drop of water rolled down his stomach, disappearing into the waistband of his sweats, and I forced myself to look away before I did something stupid. Like lick it off.

Did hot guys not know how towels worked? Or was he just hoping the whole glistening wet body with rivulets of water draining down toward his waist would do dark things to my mind?

He glanced at me and I immediately snapped my eyes shut, doing an unconvincing job of pretending to already be asleep.

Why was I pretending to sleep?

Between the suddenness of what had happened and Maggie’s call, I hadn’t even had time to process what I really wanted.

Had I wanted… that to continue? My body certainly had. Hell, I could still feel a warm, pleasant pulsing between my legs and a tingling aura of arousal thumping just beneath my skin. But where did that moment lead? Would it mean taking us from pretend to real? And was I actually willing to put even a small piece of my heart in his hands again after how the last time played out?

Or were we planning to classify it as casual fun? I could do casual fun. In theory. Would I really be able to do things like that with James and not start getting confused, though?

My eyes were squeezed shut as I heard the tantalizing sound of his towel dropping to the ground. Despite my better judgment, I opened my eyes and turned to look.

And goodness… His ass was a thing of pure beauty. His back was broad and tapered. His legs were long and chiseled. He lifted one leg and stepped into a thin pair of gray boxer briefs, and then began to turn.

I whipped my head and body around so fast I might have given myself whiplash, slammed my eyes shut, and tried to lay perfectly still.

Who just drops their towel when their not-girlfriend is laying in a bed right there? So what if I was pretending to be asleep?

The only explanation was that he knew exactly what he was doing. He knew his ass was the stuff of dreams, and he was hoping I looked. It was the only explanation.

Bastard.

I felt him slide into the blankets beside me. I could almost picture him lingering there, half propped-up as he faced me and considered saying something. I waited, heart hammering, but he didn't reach for me. Didn't try to continue what we'd started.

I almost wanted him to.

And then I felt him lay down fully.

Part of me was relieved. The smarter part of me. The part that remembered how much it hurt last time.

The rest of me wanted to climb on top of him and pick up exactly where we'd left off.

I heard him shift, followed by a soft sigh. The mattress dipped as he rolled over, and I held my breath, wondering if he'd reach for me.

He didn't.

I lay there in the dark, hyper-aware of every movement, every breath. The distance between us felt both too big and not big enough.

Eventually, his breathing evened out. I stayed awake far too long, wondering if he was really asleep or just pretending like I was.

I was sixteen again, learning to drive stick shift in my dad's ancient Volkswagen. The gearshift kept sticking, and I couldn't get it into first gear no matter how hard I pushed and pulled.

"You have to be gentle with it," Dream-Dad said from the passenger seat. "Feel for the sweet spot."

I jerked the stick back and forth, growing frustrated. The car made strange sounds and shook, almost as if it was laughing at my futile attempts to figure this thing out. "It won't go!"

"Maybe try rotating it a little," Dream-Dad suggested. "Sometimes you have to work it around until you find the right position."

I tried moving the stick shift in circles, but that just made the shaking and laughing worse.

The shifter was warm against my hand. What a nice feature. I’d heard of heated seats and heated steering wheels. But heated stick shifts? Fancy. My hands were cold. So I wrapped my other hand around it, just to enjoy the warmth.

Even if I couldn’t quite get the car to move the way I wanted, there was something I enjoyed about playing with the thing. I felt my Dream-Dad fade out of existence, because that sort of thing definitely happened all the time. It was just me and the stick shift, which I had given up understanding. I was just absently rubbing my fingertips over the tip of it now as my hand slid up and down its length.

The car had stopped shaking now and it was almost like it was trying to talk to me.

Yes, car? Are you trying to explain the secrets of the stick shift to me?

"Emma."

The car knows my name. That’s creepy.

"Emma, sweetheart..."

And now it’s calling me sweetheart. And its voice is honestly really hot. Why is my car’s voice ? —

My eyes flew open. Early morning light cut through the window in buttery shafts, illuminating a very amused-looking James. I was pressed against his side with my face on his chest, and my hands were...

"I can’t say I’ve ever had a woman try that exact technique on me?" he said, voice rough with sleep. “But I’ll give you an A+ for effort. It felt like you were trying to get me to shift into gear or something. I’d say we’re in second or third gear already, maybe we’ll hit fourth if you keep it up.”

That's when I realized my hands were wrapped around something that definitely wasn't a gearshift. Something hard and—oh god. Based on how long his sweats had been tenting, I must have been "adjusting" things for a while.

"How long have you been awake?" I squeaked.

“Not long,” he admitted, rubbing his eyes and smirking. For some reason, my hands were still on his cock. I could feel it pulsing beneath my fingers and had to fight the urge to bite my lip and keep going.

Oh God. What the hell is wrong with me?

I jerked my hands away, looking at them as if they were possessed.

“I have to say,” James continued. “I’m starting to really enjoy sharing a bed with you. Your morning hospitality is absolutely stellar. And the surprise aspect?” He did a “chef’s kiss” motion, smiling wider. “I can’t wait to see what treat you have in store for me tomorrow. Whispering sweet nothings in my ear? Or maybe you’ll be dreaming you’re making clay pots?” He cupped his hands around a phantom clay pot and moved them up and down, as if his implication wasn’t already clear enough.

"This never happened!" I scrambled out of bed, nearly falling in my haste.

"Oh it definitely did. And I plan to cherish the memory?—"

I slammed the bathroom door on his laughter, sliding down to sit on the floor with my face in my hands.

I might actually have to go ask the front desk if they had those handcuffs after all.