Chapter 15
Excessively warm hands reach out and curl around my waist, keeping me from falling but also branding my skin where each of Julien’s long fingers wrap around the dip in my curves.
His whole body is radiating heat that my skin is absorbing and making itself known in the blush I feel rising in my cheeks.
It’s feverish, his warmth. Even the scent coming off him makes my insides melt.
Spicy, like lemongrass and ginger, with maybe a hint of peppermint.
While a little voice in the back of my brain tells me all of this is because he just got out of the shower and more than likely brushed his teeth as well, I can barely make out the familiar voice of my own common sense because all my other brain cells are being overwhelmed at this moment due to Julien’s nearness.
He takes a step back, and one by one his fingers peel away from the divots above my hips. “Are you all right?”
“What?” Now that he’s not touching me and I’m not breathing him in, encompassed by his proximity, whatever wiring malfunction that just happened in my brain is righting itself.
I’m left with slight mortification. So much for projecting a confident demeanor.
Kind of hard to do after colliding with someone and then momentarily losing grip on your control.
Hard, but not impossible.
“Sorry about that.” I wave off his concern like he’d had no effect on me whatsoever. “Clumsy me.”
He doesn’t say anything, nor does he make any motion to move away. So far, I’ve kept my gaze pointed neatly at the ground, but I can’t go around memorizing the carpet pattern, especially if we want to move past this awkward stage. So, I force my lips into what I hope is a nonchalant smile.
Look at me, I am unaffected by this unconventional turn of events and you can be too is what I’m hoping to project.
Therefore, I will not take note of the fact this is only the second time seeing Julien in something other than one of his tailored blue suits.
Nor that how he wears the red-and-black buffalo plaid pajama pants and fitted black T-shirt he has on reminds me of a model in a Christmas catalog.
His throat bobs as my gaze continues to rise.
Okay, this is not fair. “You wear glasses.” I state the obvious in a breathless tone. I’ve always had a weakness for a man in glasses. You can have Superman. Give me Clark Kent. Julien’s horn-rimmed frames somehow make his blue eyes even bluer. It’s a conspiracy.
And speaking of firsts, this is the first time I’ve ever seen his hair without any type of product in it.
The gray strands appear darker in their still-damp state.
He’s run a comb through them, but without the discipline of gel, they’re drying in any direction they choose.
A few strands fall across his forehead, giving him a boyish sort of charm.
“I usually wear contacts, but . . .” he says thickly before casting his gaze to the bed.
Right. Wearing contacts to sleep is a no-no. “They look nice,” I say.
He dips his head and touches the frames almost self-consciously. The move has his own gaze traveling downward, and since I’m standing right in front of him, he can’t help but take me in. His Adam’s apple bobs again right before his jaw clenches and his eyes squeeze shut.
He probably feels obligated to give me a compliment in return because I gave him one first, but making any sort of appreciative comment on my clothes—especially pajamas—or body—especially since more skin than usual is showing—would more than put him over that professional line he promised me in the lobby he wouldn’t cross and well into creepy, inappropriate territory.
Feeling the need to rescue him, I point to the bathroom. “If you’re done in there, I’ll just pop in and get ready for bed.”
“Yes,” he coughs out. “Yes, of course. Be my guest.”
I gather my own toiletries and close the door behind me. Leaning against the sink, I stare at myself in the mirror. I need to get myself under control. I am a thirty-eight-year-old woman. My issues with hormones are closer to perimenopause than puberty, and I need to make sure I act like it.
With that little pep talk—if you can call it that—I turn on the faucet to run cool water and wash my face.
An assortment of moisturizers and night creams are applied, including a serum for my hair that will hopefully control the frizziness.
I brush my teeth, and then I no longer have an excuse to not open the door and make my way to bed.
I square my shoulders a second time but wait a beat after opening the door to step out.
We don’t need a repeat of my face-plant into Julien’s pecs.
I shouldn’t have worried, however, because Julien is already under the covers of the bed closest to the door.
My dad always takes that side of the bed as well.
He says it’s because he wants to be between Mom and any danger in case an intruder makes their way in.
I doubt Julien’s reason is the same, but one never knows. He does seem like the chivalrous type.
I pull back the covers of my bed and slide between the cool sheets. The underwire of my bra pokes me as I try to get comfortable, but there’s no way that baby is coming off.
“Good night,” Julien says before clicking off the lamp on his bedside table.
“Good night,” I reply, turning off my own light.
The room is plunged into semi-darkness. Neither of us closed the curtain in front of the glass door leading to the balcony.
A three-quarter moon hangs in the sky, the amber glow of its reflection bouncing off the ocean water like yellow diamonds.
If I concentrate real hard, I can hear the crash of the waves on the beach and the ebb and flow of the tide.
Better than the white noise app on my phone, although a lot fainter.
An obnoxious snore rips through the serene silence, not faint at all.
The sound is a mix between a log being sawed and a pig with a cold snorting in a barnyard.
I prop myself up on my elbow and stare at Julien.
He’s lying on his back, his hands on his chest, and his mouth parted.
One, how in the world did he fall asleep so quickly?
Two, there’s no way that horrible sound came from him.
I mean, clearly there is, since he’s the only other person in this room, but isn’t there a law that hot guys don’t snore?
His chest rises as he breathes in, and the same sawing pig starts up again. It’s quiet for a moment, and I think maybe that’s it. Maybe he just snores before he falls into a deep sleep. But then he gasps as if he’s choking on air, snorts, then saws on his next log.
I flop onto my back and stare up at the ceiling.
Julien snores.
I roll onto my side and press two pillows to my ears.
Julien snores.
The time ticks on, and Julien snores.
I’d say that I’m a nice person. I help people when I can. Volunteer my time at the library past my paid hours. Go out of my way to make others feel safe and included and appreciated. I’ve had zero homicidal thoughts in my life.
Until now.
I sit up straight in bed and smash the pillow between my hands, glaring in Julien’s direction. Smothering him with this pillow sounds like a brilliant idea right this second.
He grunts, snuffles loudly, then settles back into the porcine lumberjack he’s been mimicking all night.
I squeeze the downy filler. So brilliant.
Instead of manslaughter, I reach out one leg from beneath my covers and straddle the space between our beds.
Once my toes touch his mattress, I give it a violent shove, then curl up in the fetal position as fast as I can, feigning sleep.
You know, in case he wakes up and looks over, I’ll look totally innocent.
I don’t actually want to wake him up. I just want him to stop making that awful racket so I can fall asleep.
I hold my breath as the seconds tick by. Blessed peace. I can’t believe that worked. Taking a deep breath, I relax my muscles so I can drift off into dreamland.
The loudest snore of the night rips through the air as well as through the last of my sanity.
I grab my pillow and stand in the space between our beds, glaring down at Julien.
His eyes are closed, his face slack. This is not the time I observe him in slumber and my heart goes all mushy at witnessing him in a state of vulnerability, like a romance book would have you believe.
No. He has a little drool coming out the side of his mouth, and I still have way too much murder-mindedness in my heart.
Leaving him there to wake the rest of the dead—of which I feel a member—I slide open the door to the balcony and step outside.
The temperature has dropped since the sauna-levels of earlier, and a nice breeze is coming off the water.
The sounds of the waves are louder out here and, once I close the door behind me, do a good job of drowning Julien out.
Javier said sleeping on the pool chaises wasn’t allowed, but he can’t stop me from curling up on the cushioned wicker chair here on the balcony. Tucking my feet under me, I drape the blanket over my body and the pillow under my cheek.
Finally, I can get some sleep.