Chapter 3 Monroe
Chapter three
Monroe
This was not how I intended to claim the cabin.
Part of me wants to stomp my feet and refuse to leave, but I'm not completely insane, so I still need to figure out what to do for the next few nights.
Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, and I guarantee everything is booked around here, but the prospect of heading straight home or spending Christmas in a hotel on the road makes me want to cry. Again.
"May I use your computer?" I ask, figuring I'm already crashing, I might as well be a complete nuisance about it.
"For what?" he asks, and I bristle, even though it is his computer.
Drake's attitude has me furious, but even worse is how damn sexy he looks as he stands there holding my luggage and a large box like they weigh nothing more than a feather.
I have never understood angry sex. Why would I want anybody touching me who makes me mad?
Yet, if this grinch would let me, I'd climb him like a Christmas tree and jingle the shit out of his bells.
I squeeze my thighs together and swallow hard before answering.
"I thought I'd see if I can find anything else available for rent around here."
He hesitates and then nods toward his computer.
"Thank you," I say, and my nipples harden from his intense gaze.
I clear my throat and turn, placing Miranda's bakery box on the counter before I sit at the stool.
My first search is "The Hollywood" in Duhring Park.
I could call Cora directly, but if she doesn't have anything available, I'm sure she will insist I stay with her or Addy, and I don't want to do that this weekend.
They have their own Christmas traditions and a possible baby making an appearance.
If I wanted to be uncomfortable, I would have gone to Dad's house.
I click on the first link, and images of the various cabins fill the screen.
I burst into giggles when I see what she meant by themes earlier.
It looks like the cabins are designed around movie genres.
There is a romance-themed cabin that looks like cupid and a 70s porno had a baby—in a cool way.
The Nightmare Before Christmas theme is front and center, but they also have a cabin decorated like that from the movie Psycho.
The western-themed cabin looks fun, but then the sci-fi one is set on the moon, so that's amazing as well. But no openings that I can find.
"The Watsons’ place? They were probably booked out a year ago," Drake says, peering over my shoulder as he places the large box on the edge of the kitchen counter.
"Hmm, I think Cora said it was a family business. Did her parents start it?" I ask.
Drake nods and then turns abruptly to place my luggage near the bed. "I'll take the couch tonight."
"Oh, no. You don't have to do that. I'm fine on the couch. Thank you," I insist, jumping up. I was not expecting him to be such a gentleman after the way he barked at me earlier, so I'm flustered and flapping around like a pre-dinner Christmas goose.
Drake shakes his head. "I insist." He walks back toward me. "Looks like you had frozen food in here. Do you want me to put it away for tonight?"
I jump forward quickly, not wanting to inconvenience him, and I end up colliding with his side as he strides purposefully toward the box on the counter. Oh my God. He's a brick wall of glorious muscle.
"Oof! Sorry."
His strong hands are wrapped around my waist as he steadies me, and the heat from his touch is almost overwhelming.
My breath catches when I look up into his eyes.
If I didn't know better, I'd say this man is interested in me.
My lips part, and my breathing picks up.
He leans close to me, and I keep my eyes on his mouth.
Is he going to kiss me? Am I going to let him?
Then the spell is broken as he steadies me, quickly removing his hands and taking a large step back.
He reaches for my box of supplies, bringing it closer to him, and I scoot the baked goods out of the way. His gaze lands on The Reading Grounds logo, and he pauses.
"You came up through Duhring Park?" Drake asks, motioning toward the bakery box.
I turn to him excitedly, still flustered, and grateful for something to break the awkward tension. "Yes. What a great place. It reminds me a lot of home to be honest. Have you had the cake?"
"No." He shakes his head and then moves away quickly, his arms full of frozen pizzas as he heads to the freezer.
"Oh. Well, it's delicious. I'm happy to share it with you. Miranda gave me a huge slice." I glance at him, but he has his head hidden behind the freezer door. "How did you know about The Hollywood?"
Drake closes the freezer and leans back against the wall, eyeing me. "I grew up in Duhring Park."
"Really? Do you still have family there, or aren't they around for Christmas?" I ask, knowing I'm being nosy, but for some reason I want to know everything about this guy who is grumpy and rude one minute, and looking at me with a different kind of heat the next.
Drake gives me a long look and then sighs. "My sister and her family live there. My parents will be at her house for Christmas as well. I haven't talked to my sister in a few years. She's actually great friends with Cora and Miranda."
"Oh." Noting the flicker of pain that crosses his face as he tells me, I add, "I'm sorry you guys are distant."
Drake's gaze locks with mine and my heart races, but then he breaks eye contact and looks around the kitchen. "Are you hungry?"
"Um, yes, I am." I grin at the man in front of me who probably saved my life by letting me stay here tonight and offer the only olive branch I have available. "Pizza and margaritas sound good? My treat."
"I accept."
When Drake smiles back at me, a rush of desire immediately soaks my panties. He turns and opens the freezer to pull out one of the pizzas, and my eyes bounce down to his firm backside. I want to swoon. This man is a knockout. What did he say about living out my mountain man fantasies?
For the next twenty minutes, we work as a team in the kitchen. The margarita mix is cold already, so Drake gets the drink supplies set up while I pop the pizza in the oven. When I'm done there, I shoo him to the other side of the counter, and he watches me make margaritas.
I grab two glasses out of the cupboard, giving each a generous pour.
I won't make any more tonight, but if I want to find a way to actually get some sleep while surrounded by the clean, woodsy scent of Growly McGee, I'm going to need to loosen up a bit.
One margarita, and I'll still have my wits about me.
When I turn to bring our glasses to the table, I gasp and just about drop our drinks on the floor.
In Drake's hands is the stack of sexy books Miranda gave me.
I haven't had a chance to peruse the titles yet, but based on the look on Drake's face, I'm guessing these came from the top shelf of the chili-pepper bookcase.
As a flush of embarrassment heats my cheeks, I shake my head. Fuck this. I'm not going to be ashamed about my taste in literature. I square my shoulders and place his drink on the counter in front of him.
"See anything you like in there?" I ask, glancing at the books pointedly.
Drake grins sheepishly. "I thought they were … well, I don't know." He shakes his head and picks up the margarita.
"I like a variety of books, but for a weekend alone, smutty romance is my top pick." I take a sip of my margarita.
Drake eyes me over his glass, taking a sip of margarita and licking his lips in a way that has me swallowing hard.
The buzzer on the oven sounds, and I push back off the counter.
Saved by the bell.
As I pull out the pan, I'm reminded once again of what he said when we first met, about not living out my mountain man fantasies with him, and I decide he's going to have to make the first move.
I can't imagine anything more humiliating than being rejected if I am misinterpreting his interest. Actually, I can.
It would definitely be more humiliating to be turned down and then still stuck in the cabin with him.
Nope.
Dinner is pleasant. We chat about surface-level things, and I don't bring up Duhring Park again, but the sexual tension is palpable. Although, I'm 50/50 on whether it all might be in my head.
When he brings over the pitcher of margaritas to refill both our glasses, I put my hand over the top of mine to decline. He doesn't see it and pours the margarita straight onto my hand. It splashes everywhere, but most of it lands in a puddle on my lap, soaking my jeans immediately.
"Oh shit! I'm sorry, Monroe." Drake turns for a towel, as I stand quickly.
More liquid sloshes to the floor, and I can't help but burst into a fit of giggles when Drake slips in the mixture on his way back to the table.
The hulking moose of a man goes down, and then I slip trying to help him up and land straight on his chest. His laughter vibrates, and I lift up to one arm to stare down at him.
"I don't want any more margarita," I deadpan, trying desperately to stifle my giggle, but when he grins up at me, it comes out anyway.
Drake reaches out and brushes a piece of hair behind my ear. His fingers graze my cheek, and a shudder racks my body. My breath catches. He swallows, and I lean in toward his lips, but he gently pushes me back so he can stand up.
"Why don't you go get changed in the bathroom, and I'll clean up out here."
Drake reaches for my hand, helping me to my feet, and my cheeks heat from his obvious lack of interest.
"Right, thanks," I say, barely looking at him. Mortified, I head for my luggage as tears prick behind my eyes.
Girl, get your shit together right now, I chastise myself, shaking my head and dropping to my knees to pull the suitcase over to me. My stomach drops when I open it up.
Oh shit.
I stare down in horror at the pile of vintage lingerie filling my suitcase and realize I have a problem.
I didn't bring anything else to wear. Last year, I brought sexy nightgowns and wore those, never even touching my other clothes, so my friend Stella convinced me to go all four days wearing nothing but sexy lingerie.
I had planned to go home in the same outfit I wore today.
I bite my lip and run my hand over the lovely silky fabrics. These were supposed to allow me to spend the weekend like a sexy vixen. But now, I'm going to look like I'm throwing myself at Drake.
Damn it.
I could ask to borrow his shirt, but somehow, that seems more inappropriate. I can't win.
I reach in and grab the longest nightgown of the collection: a burnt orange silk number that leaves little to the imagination. The alternatives are tiny fuzzy shorts with matching bikini top, or short, sheer nighties. At least this one isn't see-through.
My first thought as I duck into the bathroom and peel off my sticky jeans is the advice my mom used to give me.
Pack for every eventuality, Monroe.
I smile, realizing she's still teaching me lessons all these years later. Too bad I didn't remember it back in Maple Ridge.
After I get cleaned up, I let the soft fabric float over my curves. It clings to me like plastic wrap against my breasts, my hard nipples on full display, and then flares out around my hips. I shake my head at my reflection and then fluff my hair.
Maybe, if I hustle, I can get under the covers before he notices me.
Time to face the music.