Chapter 11
CARLIE
Day one.
The early morning sun pokes through the bungalow window as I stretch out in the California king bed. Those West Coast folks have their shit together—this bed is bliss.
A groan sounds from somewhere on the floor. I tug the sheet up over my silk sleep camisole, only now remembering who I share a room with.
Rawlins.
I shuffle forward on the bed, sheet clutched in my hands, as I peek at the floor.
He lies flat out on the hard floor, a forearm covering his eyes, the biceps bulging with its elevated position.
The single blanket I tossed at him last night has slipped down, exposing his bare, toned chest and stomach.
Holy shit.
The man is built to perfection.
A raw groan slips through his lips as he stretches where he lies, and his arm falls away.
Fuck.
I scramble backward and lie, shoving my hands under my head as I roll onto my side and slam my eyes shut.
A soft chuckle turns to a strangled moan as the blanket hits the bed. “Sweet Jesus, the damn floor is as hard as it looks. Mornin’, sleepyhead.” Footsteps pad behind the faux wall as he adds, “You can open your eyes now, Lamont.”
My eyes fling open along with my mouth.
I snap my mouth shut, remembering the pajamas I have on, the very open space we share, and the fact that this is only the first day, and night, of seven. More, if we screw this up.
I flip the covers back and rush to where my bag sits against the wall on the rack underneath the flat-screen. I dig through it until I find an oversized T-shirt and pull it on. Better.
Flinging my long hair over one shoulder, I pluck my phone up from the nightstand and send Mills proof of life.
She sends a cowboy emoji back.
I roll my eyes and click my phone off.
The one thing she and I don’t agree on has always been romantic love.
Call it the baggage of my trauma, whatever you want, but after the first man I ever loved decided I wasn’t worth the trouble and left Mom and me to fend for ourselves, I haven’t bought into the commercial concept of romantic love.
Because that’s all it is—a way for companies to sell more products and services to unsuspecting big-hearted fools by attaching emotional need or the perception of it.
I’m nobody’s fool. Not anymore.
“Bathroom’s free.” The low tone pulls me from my inner TED Talk.
Dragging my gaze from the lock screen of my phone, I meet deep blues, an angled jaw that could rival Thor’s, and messy damn dark hair.
I force my focus back to my phone. “Yep.”
With only a few minutes ’til five, I opt for just brushing my teeth and washing my face before Manuel graces our doorstep.
I’ll work out and shower after the morning session.
Rawlins is dressed in a T-shirt and shorts that resemble running clothes. As he shoves his AirPods into each ear and taps his phone, I realize he has the same idea as me.
Except I wouldn’t be caught dead running.
Cardio never served me well, only adding to my waistline instead of reducing it.
So one of my HIIT workouts will do nicely while he’s out pounding the pavement.
Slapping a sports watch on his wrist, he answers the door as I finish getting ready.
My navy active wear is my favorite thing right now.
And the fact it compliments my long strawberry-toned blonde hair and brown eyes is an added bonus.
“Good morning, my lovelies!” Manuel’s exuberant greeting fills the air throughout the bungalow. I grab my phone and stalk my way to the door. I pluck the keys from the front table and hold Rawlins’s in one hand, waiting for him to take it.
The key disappears from my fingers as he raises a brow. “Someone has plans.”
I slip the key into the side pocket of my pants and slide my sneakers on, tying the laces.
“Well, let’s get you two to yoga.” Manuel turns on his heel, leading the way. I follow as Rawlins holds the door before closing it after us.
Across the resort and past the pool that’s unsurprisingly vacant, we find another large grass area where people mill about. A grid of yoga mats, ready for the morning’s session, cover the dewy grass.
Manuel shows us to two mats in the middle. I take the first one, and Rawlins takes the next. Manuel drops his clipboard by the next and steps onto it.
“You’re doing this, too?” I ask.
“Of course. I wouldn’t ask my guests to do anything I wouldn’t.”
I scoff and Rawlins glances at me.
“Okay, people. Shoes off my mats, please,” the instructor calls. It’s then I notice Manuel’s bare feet.
Shit.
I squat, untying my laces. Rawlins does the same, his gaze snagging on mine as I hurry my laces free.
Ignoring him, I slide my sneakers off and slip my socks into them.
Music starts up, slow and rhythmic. The instructor signals for silence and then bends to one side.
The group imitates her movement. I bend to the side, my body still cool and stiff from the early morning start.
We bend to the opposite side, and my limbs wake up. Slowly.
The sun rises a little more with each pose we hold, wobble through, and fall from. Not used to the stretching and balancing act of the exercise, I’m trembling by the time the hour is up.
“Alright, well done, all. I will see you tomorrow morning. Same time, same place.” The instructor beams with a smile.
The crowd of early risers disperses, and I sit on the mat, tugging my sneakers back on.
“Well, that was fun,” a low, breathy voice says.
I snap my attention to Rawlins. His T-shirt clings to his toned frame from the exertion. A sheen of sweat lines his forehead.
“If you say so.”
“Okay, my children, I will see you in an hour for breakfast.” Manuel swipes up his clipboard with a broad smile, like this garbage rejuvenates him.
Me, I’m exhausted and still recovering from trying to contort myself and hold my muscles at angles that no man’s ever managed to get my body into, let alone me trying it on my own.
As if my facial expression changed, Rawlins frowns. “See you back at the house.”
See you back at the house. Like it’s our house. Just a normal occurrence, the two of us at home.
What the actual hell, Carlie?
Fucking yoga’s bent my mind out of shape.
That has to be it . . . right?
Waving them both off, I stalk my way back to the bungalow. I need to think about something else.
Safely inside with the front door locked, I prop my phone up on a pillow with YouTube playing my favorite fitness channel’s latest workout. The first burn of the squat lances through my thighs.
Much better.
After god knows how many squats, lunges, pushups, crunches, and a trillion other body weight exercises, I’m a sweaty, happy mess.
I wander to the bathroom and peel off my clothes, letting the cool air caress my skin as I turn on the water.
The white bathroom is a stark contrast to the wooden hut-style bedroom on the other side of this wall.
The space floods with steam. It’s warm and relaxing . . . delectable.
The vision of Rawlins lying on the floor bare-chested this morning captures my mind. The toned chest, hard stomach, and bulging arms. Like he . . .
Heat sinks low in my belly.
Apparently, yoga not only loosens up your muscles, but it also destroys your sanity and rational thinking with its twisty ways. Because where the hell did that come from?
And why the hell is Vinny still in my bag and not in my damn hand?
My fingers gravitate to my now-hard nipple.
Maybe I should get it out of my system before he comes back. Leaning on the warm tile, I slide a hand over my stomach to my throbbing apex. With the first brush of my fingertip over my clit, I arch off the wall, tempted to pad back to the room to grab Vinny.
But my window of solitude this morning is closing, and I need this over and done with.
Pinching my aching nipple, I sink two fingers into my pussy.
“Oh god above,” I mutter into the steam.
It’s been ages since I got laid.
I should have taken care of this before I left. Now I’m stuck in this tiny bungalow with the last person I want to be thinking about while I’m grinding over my own hand.
As the telltale spiral of bliss unravels and I come hard and fast, I can’t help the string of throaty sounds that slip past my lips.
My breathing settles and I wash up, rewashing my hair for good measure before shutting off the water. Stepping out onto the bathmat, I squint through the steam, doing a double take at the empty towel rack.
Urgh, the no-towel curse of the couples suite.
I swear this old hut is conspiring against us.
I pad to the bedroom to grab one from the end of the bed that was made while we were at yoga. But the bed is suspiciously empty. Save for a handwritten note.
I pick it up.
Carlie )
For fuck’s sake.
Sorry to break it to you, Elizabeth, but there is no Carlie and Lawson.
I drop the note on the bed as a noise comes from just outside.
Dripping wet with nothing but the pillows at my left or the entire bedspread to cover myself with, I stand frozen for a heartbeat.
I scramble for something to shield against the person on the other side of the door that I’m assuming is Rawlins.
His key slides into the lock.
The image conjured by the sound shouldn’t exist. It really shouldn’t.
The lock clicks.
The doorknob turns.
The door cracks open.
Breaths come short and choppy as I alternate between standing my naked ground and owning this or cowering behind . . . his throw blanket. It’s draped over the chair by the bags.
Could I get there and back in time and cover up before he sees the true Carlie Lamont?
A vision I’m sure will scar him for life. At the least, traumatize him to the point he might actually quit Serenity and leave me to my peace . . .
Standing butt-naked, I’m indecisive for the first time in my life.