Chapter 52 Jordan
JORDAN
The next morning, my eyes are still closed but the room is bright. I am supremely comfortable, warm and cozy and sinking into the mattress and—
Tate. I’m tucked against him, my back to his front, and from the slow, steady rise and fall of his broad, firm chest, he’s still asleep. A heavy arm draped over my waist, another beneath my neck, caging me in against him.
Oh my god. I fell asleep. I was supposed to go back to my guesthouse but I fell asleep in his bed. This is not okay in twelve million different ways, and now I need to extricate myself without waking him up. Who fell asleep first, me or him? Maybe he doesn’t know I’m here.
We’re under the duvet, one that rivals the fluffiness of mine in the guesthouse. It’s covered in the softest cotton duvet cover, and I have the urge to brush my cheek against it.
I start to slide out and his arms tighten around me. He’s no longer wearing his t-shirt, I realize. Or his pants. He’s in just his boxer briefs. I wait a moment and try again.
He sucks in a sharp breath.
“Morning.” His voice is low and gravelly with sleep, and the single word goes straight to the bottom of my stomach with a pleasant twinge.
“Hi.” I swallow, every muscle in my body taut. “Hello.”
Hello? My god, Jordan.
“Good morning,” I add, because apparently this isn’t awkward enough. Let’s make it worse. Great. Yes.
I feel the gentle shake of his chest against my back.
“Are you laughing at me?” I ask, attempting indignation.
“Yes.”
I look over my shoulder and am immediately devastated by his fucked-up bedhead, stubble, and bright but sleepy eyes, so green and amused in the morning light.
I’m finished. Slashed in half. Bleeding out and doomed, with seconds to live. I’ll never recover after seeing him like this. My gaze snags on his pecs, on the chest hair, the way his shoulders are round and more toned than most guys in the NHL, I’m betting.
“I fell asleep,” I say.
His eyes are steady on me. His arm is still around me.
A million exclamation points bounce around my brain.
He doesn’t look mad, or annoyed, or concerned or like any of this is a problem.
He doesn’t look anything except handsome.
So handsome. His handsomeness is eviscerating. His expression gives me nothing.
“You fell asleep.” He blinks, frowning like he’s confused. “So did I. I slept all night. Again.”
“I should, um.” Move. Change my name. Research facial reconstruction.
I kind of like my nose and my eyes but maybe I could get away with bleaching my hair and getting a bunch of piercings, or something.
Find a village in Italy where no one speaks English and I can have a tiny bar where I serve only Negronis. “Go. I’m going to go.”
He told me very clearly that we weren’t anything, and yet here I am, waking up in his bed. He probably thinks I have a crush on him.
Which I do. A deep, inconvenient crush that won’t go away. But I don’t want him to know that.
“I didn’t fall asleep here on purpose,” I tell him quickly.
“I know.” The heavy arm around my waist that I have the sudden urge to lick lifts and he shifts onto his back, eyes still on me, endlessly steady. No smile, no spark in his eyes, no amusement. Just watchful and studying.
“Thanks.” Thanks? For what? Good lord, I’m terrible at this part.
His mouth ticks up at the edge. “You’re welcome.”
“You’re teasing me again.”
His mouth curls higher. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Your eyes are laughing at me.”
His eyes are absolutely sparkling now. None of this is a concern to him, because he has no romantic feelings for me.
I shove the duvet off me like it’s covered in ants and slip out of the most comfortable bed I’ve ever been in.
“See you later,” I say without looking back, snatching up the panties I originally came for last night before I hurry down the hall, and down the stairs.
In the living room, Phoebe sits on her chair, ragged breath sawing in and out of her squashed face while her tail flicks. Her googly eyes are full of judgment.
“I don’t want to hear a word,” I tell her as I pass.