Chapter 12
Kaylee
I don't know what I expected waking up in a hotel with a stranger who is technically my husband to be like, but it sure as hell wasn't to the scent of sugar, bacon, and coffee and the sounds of a daytime game show.
I walk into the living area, feeling like a bridge troll after having to put this ridiculous dress back on after my shower last night, to find Ellis sitting in front of the television with a plate piled high of food in nothing but a pair of blue jeans.
"Are you serious?" I mutter.
He looks away from the television at me, and I swear I can feel the sweep of his eyes on my legs.
"Did you sleep on the couch?"
"Where else would I sleep?"
I can hear the suggestion in his voice.
"You look... rested."
"How would you expect me to look?" he asks.
I wave my hand up and down to indicate myself, but his smile only grows as his eyes travel the length of me.
"You look fabulous," he says, and I can't seem to pinpoint the hint of humor in his tone, but I know it has to be there somewhere.
"Seriously?"
He shrugs. "Happy wife, happy life. Isn't that how the saying goes?"
I scoff, tugging at the hem of this stupid, itchy dress. "I need clothes."
He angles his fork, part of a pancake still clinging to it, toward a bag near the bedroom door.
"I grabbed some stuff from the gift shop."
"Thank you," I tell him.
"I ordered a bunch of stuff, but if you want something else, just let me know," he says, handing me a plate and pointing to the array of food on the small dining table.
"This looks great."
I fill my plate, wondering the entire time if he was being honest yesterday when I questioned if he was calling me fat compared to the beautiful women at the warehouse. Instead of sitting beside him on the sofa, since he's right in the middle of it, I sit at the table and eat with my back to him.
He stays quiet, answering game show questions under his breath. I find it kind of endearing that he gets nearly every one wrong except for the eighties politics column.
After I'm done eating, I risk a glance in his direction, wanting to ask him about the massive dragon tattoo on his back, but I can't bring myself to speak. The thing moves when his muscles bunch and expand.
"Want to go back to the room?"
"Huh?" I ask, snapping my gaze up to see him watching me over his shoulder.
"You look like you're still hungry."
I want to slap his face for the way his teeth rake over his bottom lip. He has no damned business being so damned good-looking.
He's supposed to be a creep, an inconsiderate man who knocks stuff over in grocery stores, not a handsome hero with a perfect smile and muscles for days.
"You should put on more clothes."
"I could say the same for you," he says, once again pointing with the damn fork in his hand.
I look down, noticing for the first time just how much the dress is riding up my thighs.
"I'm getting a shower," I tell him, jumping up from the chair and rushing to the bedroom.
I lock myself inside, pressing my back to the door. The man drives me absolutely crazy, but when I step into the bathroom, I notice the smile on my face.
Ten minutes later, I'm clean and wondering just what's in the hotel shampoo and conditioner because it has left my hair feeling better than my stuff at home does.
With my fingers in my hair, I realize my mistake.
In my effort to get away from him after being caught staring at him, not for the first time I might add, I ran into the bedroom and didn't grab the damn bag of clothes he pointed to earlier.
"Crap," I mutter as I step out of the en suite and look at the door.
The things I need are mere feet away, but I'll be damned if I put that nasty dress back on for a third time just to grab a bag.
I slink toward the door, pressing my ear to it in an effort to decide if he's still on the couch or if I'm lucky and he left the room altogether.
" This country singer played Dusty Wyatt Chandler in the 1992 movie Pure Country ."
"Travis Tritt," Ellis says, making my nose scrunch up.
"George Strait, you idiot," I mutter as the game show host moves on to the next question, the contestant actually getting the question right.
As silently as possible, I open the door and crouch low, reaching my hand out to grab the bag, but it isn't there.
"Looking for this?"
I gasp and nearly fall back on my ass when I look up and see Ellis standing there holding the damn bag.
"Do you wake up with a tally count of how many times you need to be an asshole each day?" I mutter as I stand, holding the closure of my towel so I don't lose it.
"Jesus, you're pretty," he says almost absently.
"Are you holding it hostage or do you plan to give that bag to me?"
He holds it out almost immediately, an apology on his lips, as his eyes sweep down me once again.
That's the difference between the two of us. He doesn't bother to hide his appreciation for me, whereas I'd rather stick needles in my eyes than be caught admiring him. I yank the bag from his hands, but not before my fingers brush over his warm skin. I swear the man must've been shuffling around the room in his socks in order to pool enough electricity in his body to shock me as hard as it did.
"Are you serious?" I ask, pulling my hand back and cradling it to my chest.
The bag falls at our feet and he stares at his hand as if he's never seen it before in his entire life.
"You're going to blame me for static electricity?"
I narrow my eyes at him, but I don't say a word, choosing to crouch again and gather the bag.
He does the same thing, our heads hitting in the middle so hard I see stars. This time, I can't help but fall to my ass, grateful the towel stays in place so my bare ass isn't touching the carpet. I don't care how clean this place looks, it's still a hotel room.
I scramble to get off the floor, and thankfully, Ellis decides he has had enough and stands, backing up a few feet to give me room.
"You're gonna need to let go of the towel with at least one hand," he says when I can't seem to get my feet under me while still clutching it to my chest.
"Wouldn't you just love that?" I snarl, my face flaming with embarrassment.
"I wouldn't hate it," he mutters as he inches closer.
"Stop! You've done enough," I snap, but he doesn't listen.
As if I'm a child having a meltdown, he picks me up by the shoulders and places me back down on my feet, making an un-uh noise when I go to bend to get the bag.
"I'll get it," he mutters.
My lip twitches with frustration by the time he hands over the bag, but I don't say a word as I snatch it from his stupid hand and turn back into the room, sliding the lock in place.
His chuckle from the other side of the room meets my ears, but it's the " Jesus, woman, lighten up ," that rubs me the wrong way.
There have been moments when I think the man might be a decent human being but they all fly out of the window when I pull the clothing he so sweetly bought for me.
I want to cry, not knowing which is better, the size extra small sweatpants and the t-shirt that says I got hitched in Vegas or the disgusting dress in the bathroom trash.
"And it just keeps getting worse," I mutter when I find a sports bra and the tiniest pair of panties I've ever seen still left in the bag.
The bra I don't feel like I can go without, but those nothing-but-a-string panties go right into the trash with that damn dress.
I do my best to hold my head up high as I leave the room, despite feeling like an uncoordinated sloth when I finally gather the courage to open the door. I'll never be a fashionista, but I know better than being a grown-ass woman wearing a pink-and-purple tie-dyed shirt and turquoise sweatpants.
"Thank you for the clothing," I say, with as much snark as I can manage, noting how his eyes drop below my waist, no doubt picturing me in those tiny underwear.
"Glad it all fits," he says, as if he can't see how short the sweats are on my already short legs. I swear he purchased them from the toddler department. I feel like a stuffed sausage.
"What happens next?" I ask, hoping the man has a plan.
I told him everything I knew last night, and, of course, he didn't seem very impressed to find out the entire story only lasted a couple of sentences. I commended him for not calling me stupid although I was certain I could see the thought in his eyes.
He shrugs. "I don't know. It's not like I can call my teammates and tell them I fucked up and married the first woman I met after moving to Vegas."
I don't know why the fucked-up part of that statement stings so much.
It shouldn't bother me. Neither of us wants to be in this situation, and I'm the one responsible for putting us both here. As angry as I am that he showed up, I thought through all of it last night. I don't know that I could've lasted in a place like that. I don't do well under the judgment of others. It's why I wanted out of the small town I moved away from in Texas.