Chapter 9 The Swap
CHAPTER NINE
The Swap
Brad woke with a start. The pale morning light barely peeked through the bottom of the hotel window, but it was blinding nonetheless.
He hadn’t bothered to close the drapes last night, and as cool air brushed over every inch of his skin—meaning he didn’t have a shred of clothing on—he was glad he’d opted for the floor highest off the ground level.
He’d originally picked it for the view of the river, one of the perks to actually having some discretionary income now, but it looked like it had saved his ass from being plastered all over Montana as well.
Good to know.
The heat in the room must have turned off in the night, and only the small fan from the bathroom made a whirring noise, that, if he were anyone else, would have lulled him right back under the covers, and to sleep.
Though dawn was just beginning to break, the sliver of light made Brad wince.
His head was killing him—damn those mini bottles and the flask of some kind of unknown poison Steve made him drink before the wedding.
The sugar from the lemon drop shots wasn’t doing much to help his situation either.
His whole body felt like it had been pummeled by a pissed off bull.
He thought seriously now about crawling back under the covers for another couple hours, but unfortunately, his body still operated on teacher time and no matter what kind of night he’d had, when he was up—usually early—he was up for good.
He needed to find some ibuprofen, and fast.
In addition to the aches pulsing through his head and body, his arm was numb when he went to move it, and he discovered it was still wedged under Sophie’s shoulder. Did he fall asleep with Sophie’s perfect, naked body still curved to the shape of his? No wonder he’d slept so well.
He fought the urge to trail his fingertips along every inch of alabaster skin, to wake her up and do more of what they’d just done the night before.
Those exquisite moments came flashing back in vivid and persistent detail.
Brad’s cheeks flushed with the memories of what he had done to Sophie, and he was hard remembering what she had done to and with him.
Was he crazy for believing he could have nights like that every day of the week and still not be sick of her?
She’d awakened something in him, and even now, as he thought about her hands on his hips, drawing him closer to her, as he recalled her breathy gasps as he thrust inside her, his headache dissipated slightly, heat taking the place of the vice grip his head was in.
That was one helluva night. A grin spread across his face, making him feel like an idiot.
A happy, sexually satisfied idiot. He slid his arm as carefully out from under Sophie as he could without rousing her, his smile lingering.
He doubted it would be going anywhere any time soon.
He looked down at his clothes, and what looked like quite a bit of hers, in a crumpled heap beside the bed.
Brad sorted and folded hers, smiling at the cute but faded teddy bear on her shirt before he put on his boxers and walked to the bathroom to clean up.
He took one look at his face in the mirror and stifled a laugh.
It looked like he’d been living on the streets for a good few months from the stubble of his beard and the disheveled way his hair looked like a party on one side, a matted mess on the other.
If that was the consequence of a night like he’d shared with Sophie, then he could hardly complain.
Brad shed his boxers, shut the bathroom door to keep the noise down, and started the shower, letting steam take over the room.
He downed a couple glasses of cold water from the bathroom sink and instantly felt a little bit better.
He needed food to go with the painkillers, though, so he’d wait to take those till he figured out what to do for much needed sustenance.
His stomach rumbled its vote of approval at his decision to fill it, and quickly.
He stepped into the water, his back to the scorching liquid, letting it fall over his shoulders and aching muscles.
Each spot the water touched ignited his skin and triggered another memory of Sophie’s hands, mouth, and body against his.
He shuddered, the grin returning. He’d been with his fair share of women—more lately than before Julia—but none of them had ever made him feel the unique sense of completeness and passion as Sophie had.
The only moment that gave him any pause was remembering why they’d been forced to share a room in the first place.
Steve and Sophie’s friend, Jackie, had decided that they were engaged—engaged!
—last night, and that left a huge problem to deal with today.
Though, now that he was sober and his memories of the engagement were overshadowed by his night with Sophie, it didn’t seem like that big of a deal anymore.
Steve and Jackie were adults, and dammit, he had them to thank for steering his night back on track.
If anything, he owed them an extreme debt of gratitude not for the first time.
That didn’t mean he thought they were making a good, or necessarily smart decision, but it no longer mattered as much. He’d text Steve later that morning and get the whole story. Geez. This wedding had shaped up to be more than he’d ever expected in more ways than one.
Brad turned off the water and toweled off, feeling like a new person. He cracked the door and slipped out, pleased to see Sophie hadn’t budged. He took a moment to let his gaze wander over her delicate frame, before he begrudgingly pulled away from her and got dressed.
His mood was as high as it had been since he’d first gotten a book offer.
How was he supposed to recover from this?
He sure as hell hoped Sophie was as interested in him as he was in her, because he had big plans to keep her in his life as long as possible.
While that should have sent alarm bells ringing in his head, he wasn’t at all concerned.
At the very least, he’d ask her if she had plans for Christmas evening and if she’d like to join him at his parents’ farm.
He found himself giddy at the thought of showing her where he’d grown up.
Sure, he’d have to be careful not to let his heart completely dictate his plans, but he was open to something new for the first time in over a decade.
Damn, did it feel good.
As if he’d jinxed himself, Brad scooped up his phone and checked it out of habit. No. Effing. Way. Staring back at him was a string of texts from Julia. Again. What the actual hell? Hadn’t she gotten the message loud and clear last night?
He wanted so badly to ignore them, but curiosity got the better of him and he signed into his phone, hesitating just a fraction of a second before he clicked on the first text Julia sent.
He still wasn’t sure he wanted to see what she had to say, but by then it was too late. They started innocuous enough.
Chris still isn’t back. Is he with you?
No, he certainly wasn’t. She couldn’t possibly think he and Chris would have anything to say to each other at all, let alone enough to spend Chris’s entire wedding night together.
He wanted to write back that she should check with the old college buddies he’d been three sheets to the damn wind with last night, but he didn’t want to get involved.
This wasn’t his circus anymore. Certainly not his monkeys.
He continued to read the rest of the texts in order, growing more and more frustrated with each one.
Can I come over? Heard from Chris. He’s staying with Rich. They are going bar hopping. Ugh.
I need to talk. Are you around?
Don’t tell me you’re already asleep. It’s still early. I need you, Bradley. Please.
She’d really gone all out on that last one, using his full name like she’d done the whole previous night.
Of course she’d forget that he hated being called Bradley—it made him feel older than he was and at the same time like a child whose mother was mad at him.
Or she hadn’t forgotten and was doing whatever the hell she wanted, everyone else be damned.
Thank God he hadn’t checked these last night—his time was much better spent the way it had been. He wasn’t sure in his drunken state he wouldn’t have gone to see Julia, and no matter what, that would have been a worse idea than Steve and Jackie’s engagement.
The last text was a doozy.
Brad, I am sorry, for everything. I love you. I always have. I’m sorry I screwed it all up. You know where to find me if you want to talk.
Why in the hell would he want to talk to her, especially less than twelve hours after she’d married his ex-best friend?
She was as unaware as she’d ever been, and he was never happier to be past their relationship.
This was the drama he hadn’t realized until hindsight—it really was 20/20, wasn’t it?
—that had infiltrated his life when she’d been in it.
He tucked his phone in his pocket, shook Julia’s mere existence from his cobwebbed brain, and went to grab a pen and sheet of paper to leave Sophie a note.
He figured she wouldn’t mind waking up to a full breakfast, and the mom and pop place, Jules and Verne’s, down the street was just the ticket.
As he got near the door, however, he saw something had been slipped under it. Probably the bill for the room.
Right away he recognized the hotel stationary, but this wasn’t a printed page of anything. It was a note, handwritten.
Picking it up, his heart raced as he saw the all-too-familiar scrawl across the otherwise blank page.
My room. Now. We need to talk. Love Always, Jules