Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Del
Waking up beside Lachlan is singularly the most wonderful and terrifying thing I’ve ever experienced in my life.
Even more wonderful and terrifying than when Synergy, the world’s biggest rock band, asked me to be in their latest music video after discovering my cosplay Instagram account.
I lie on my side in his bed, cheek resting on my arm, and trace his sleeping profile with my gaze.
I could spend the rest of my life looking at him. As absurd as it is, I’d marry him today if he asked. He's perfect. Sure, he’s older than me, but neither of us seem to care. The age difference certainly wasn’t an issue last night.
After all the bone-melting sex—five orgasms!
He gave me five orgasms!—we’d lain in bed, knees to knees, murmuring idle chitchat about our lives, our mutual geeky interests, and generally being utterly comfortable with each other before we both drifted off.
I’ve never done that before. I’ve also never let anyone see me butt-naked after sex, always preferring to hide my rolls under the sheets.
I like how I feel about me when I’m with him. And good gravy, do I like him. A lot.
Warm sunbeams play over his sleeping face. His soft snores make me smile. Maybe, when he wakes up, I should tell him how I—
Holy shit, what time is it?
Scrambling off the massive bed, I stare at the windows.
With the amount of sunlight streaming through them, there’s no chance in hell it’s earlier than six a.m., the prearranged time I’m meeting Stevie to go over her wedding-day schedule.
Spying my tiny bag peeking out from under my discarded wings and tutu, I snatch it up, withdraw my phone, and groan.
It’s 7:42 a.m., I’ve got two missed calls from Stevie, and…
My stomach clenches. My Instagram fan has sent me another text, this one only ninety minutes ago.
Wakey wakey.
“Weird,” I whisper. “And creepy.” Alienating a follower or not, I’m going to have to do something about it, but it’s the least of my concerns right now. Stevie’s waiting. Maybe even worrying.
From the bed, Lachlan lets out another soft snore.
I chew on my bottom lip. The walk of shame through the resort dressed as a punk fairy with I’ve-just-been-shagged hair was not on my agenda for the day. Shoving my phone back into my bag, I snatch up his discarded Henley from the floor and pull it down over my head.
The hem falls to mid-thigh, an impromptu mini dress, and I let out a low chuckle. Damn, he really is a giant.
Slinging my purse over my shoulder, I rake my fingers through my hair, rub at my teeth with my index finger, and then steal a few heartbeats to gaze at Lachlan, still asleep. Still perfect.
Wake him up. Tell him you’re in love with him.
I hurry from the bedroom and tug on my Doc Martens, sans socks. I’ll come back and get the rest of my costume after I’ve seen Stevie and apologized for being late. I grab the little resort-supplied notepad and pen on the coffee table and scribble a quick note:
Gone to see my cousin. I’ve stolen your shirt, but I’ll be back. BTW, want to come to a wedding with me tomorrow? Ha ha. Kidding. Or not. See you ASAP. XOX Future Wife.
“Good grief,” I mutter, tearing the page from the pad. “You sound like a psychopath.” Rolling my eyes, I crumple it into a ball and write another note:
Thank you for last night. It was amazing. You were amazing. I’ll be back
Heart thumping, I place the pen next to the pad, cross the suite, and open the door.
“Oh.” Beryl Stafford recoils on the other side of the threshold, hand raised, knuckles prepped to knock. “You are here.”
I blink even as I fight the urge to look back into the suite. To see if Lachlan has stirred. “Sorry?”
Beside her, Angus clears his throat and taps his cane on the ground. “What she means is, we weren’t expecting to see you.” He slides a look at his wife. “To be honest, we weren’t really sure if you were Lachlan’s fiancé.”
My pulse decides to start a rave in my throat. Damn it. Suspicious old coots.
In my bag, my phone vibrates with an incoming text. Bound to be Stevie. “Excuse me,” I mutter, pulling it out—what better way to distract the Staffords from their problematic train of thought than to mention the upcoming wedding. “I just need to…”
My stomach drops. It’s from my Instagram fan. Or should that be Instagram stalker now?
Walk of shame time?
Lifting my head, I sweep a stare at the world behind Angus and Beryl.
Empty. Except for trees, birds, lush gardens, and a million-dollar view.
Angus clears his throat again.
Beryl narrows her eyes, studying me. “He looked so panicked yesterday, you see?” she says.
“When you were talking with Stephanie Ricci? We told him not to worry about doing the meeting at that point, that we’d swing by this morning and get you both so the contract can be signed over breakfast, but he seemed quite flustered. ”
Words scrape through my head like grit on glass.
Get you both.
So the contract can be signed.
Angus pats his wife’s arm. “But she is here, love. We were worried about nothing. That means the sale can proceed.”
Sale can proceed.
An itchy heat crawls up over my cheeks into my scalp as I stare at the elderly couple. My chest squeezes.
Lachlan hadn’t wanted to protect me last night. Nor had he been responding to what I thought was the amazing chemistry between us. He’d wanted to make sure I’d be here, in his room, when the Staffords came this morning.
He didn’t want me. All he wanted was to make sure the sellers didn’t think he was single. And what better way to do that than to get me into his bed?
Oh God, I’ve been such an idiot.
“Will you excuse me?” I mutter, stepping through the door. “I have somewhere to be. Enjoy breakfast.”
I pull it shut behind me, face burning, and hurry past the elderly couple.
Away from their suspicious stares, away from the suite.
Away from Lachlan.