Eleven
I WAKE UP IN A BED THAT ISN’T MINE, IN CLOTHES that aren’t mine either, tucked beneath the arm of a man who’s only mine in the most dishonest, fantastical sense of the word.
The tip of my nose is an inch away from a bare, sun-tanned chest. If I moved even slightly, it would brush a well-developed pec, the one detailed with a flowing, fine jellyfish that I suddenly feel compelled to trace.
A compulsion that, because of the lingering haze of sleep or the remnants of an emotionally charged night or just the pure artistry of the ink, I can’t quite beat.
A compulsion that I follow all the way down his torso to where the intricate tentacles wrap around his ribcage.
My nail scrapes the sensitive spot where bones stretch skin tight, and Heath twitches.
I freeze.
I try to retreat, to feign sleep, but it’s too late. My wrist is already being held hostage, dragged to a warm mouth, lathered in a sleepy breath. ‘Well, that’s a nice way to be woken up.’
Fuck my life.
Snatching my hand away – and feeling absolutely nothing when Heath whines like a poor little puppy being deprived of attention – I roll out of bed. Standing shakily, I rasp an oh-so-casual ‘Good morning’ like nothing at all is amiss. Like I always wake up in his bed – in anyone’s bed but my own.
God knows a night in the glorified frathouse Ben has lived in our entire college lives never quite appealed to me.
‘Morning.’ Bedsheets rustle. Another yawn echoes around the room. Practically against my own will, I glance over my shoulder and watch as Heath lazily stretches. At the sight of him all rumpled and groggy, I think some things that aren’t so much words, but warm, fuzzy noises.
Things that quickly turn impure when he drags a hand down his abdomen, dips it beneath his waistband, and quickly adjusts a very awake part of his anatomy.
If I gasp, I won’t admit it.
I’d like to pretend I don’t flee the room either, but Heath won’t let me get away with that – his rasping humor follows me into the en suite. ‘Got somewhere to be, honey?’
Snatching my dress from where I left it strewn across the counter, I rush to change out of my borrowed pajamas. ‘Uh-huh.’
I didn’t bother to close the door behind me, so another drowsy laugh is loud and clear. ‘Where’s that?’
Somewhere that isn’t here, I answer only in my head.
Twisting to get a better look at the back of my dress in the mirror – and steadfastly avoiding looking at the rest of me because, not so shockingly, a night of drinking, punching, and complete humiliation has not done me any favors – I stifle a groan as I struggle to zip myself up.
My silence earns a sigh. Footsteps on floorboards.
Knuckles on wood before the creak of hinges.
Warmth and ocean and shivers as Heath fills the doorway.
Arms crossed, shoulder resting against the jamb, head at a taunting tilt.
‘Have breakfast with me,’ he asks, demands, and pleads all at once. ‘I make a mean omelet.’
‘I’m good.’
‘Running doesn’t make you hungry?’
I cut him an unamused glare. ‘Ha ha.’
A faint smile curving his mouth, he abandons his post. I stiffen as he finds a new one right behind me, as he steals the zipper from my fumbling fingers and holds it hostage. ‘Why, exactly, are you running?’
‘It’s cardio day.’
The quip earns me a tut, and the purr of a zip moving the wrong way. I forget to be annoyed about that, for a second. I get distracted by the feel of long fingers peeling my dress further apart before splaying wide across the middle of my back.
By the time I collect myself enough to jab an elbow backwards in a super polite request for a little personal space, my zipper is kissing the base of my spine, and I am dangerously close to a full frontal slip.
Clutching the sagging fabric to my chest, I turn so I can hit Heath with my real scowl, rather than just a reflection of it. ‘What the hell?’
‘Is this about last night?’
Beneath my palm, my heart thunders. ‘What about last night?’
‘You’ve got my bitemark on your tit, Daniela. Bit late for coy.’
My gaze drops. My nose wrinkles. Jesus. ‘What, were you hungry?’
‘I plead the fifth.’ He stares at my chest, admires it, licks his goddamn lips, for what I swear is a full minute before lifting his eyes to mine. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m a little concerned about developing a blood clot.’
He chokes on a laughed rendition of my name. ‘I meant after last night.’
The most stubborn parts of me rise to the surface and snap, ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
His brows raise. Pose a challenge. Do you really want me to elaborate?
I kiss my teeth. No. I really, really do not.
‘My knuckles hurt, I still want to kill my ex, and I’ll probably be embarrassed for the next decade or so, but I’m fine. Happy?’
‘Could be happier.’
‘Enlighten me.’
‘Stay for breakfast.’
‘Do I look susceptible to emotional blackmail?’
‘You look very, very pretty.’
‘Is it the bed-head, the pillowcase imprint, or the giant mouth-made bruise that’s doing it for you?’
‘The semi-nudity. The hickey is a close second, though.’
I laugh. God, how does he do that? Turn every moment light, lift every mood, make me forget how supremely shitty I might be feeling – make me guilty and desperate because, shit, I wish I could return the favor.
Shifting from one foot to the other, I clutch my dress a little tighter and sigh. ‘I don’t like omelets.’
‘Shit.’ Heath gasps, eyes widening. ‘Offer rescinded, then.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘That’s on the table?’
So briefly it barely registers as a real thought, an extremely inappropriate image flashes through my mind. Me, on a table. Him, on his knees in front of it. ‘Y’know, I really wish you did have an ex—’
‘So you could beat her up?’
Jesus. Maybe this is why he doesn’t have any. No one can keep up with him – they spontaneously combust, simply trying. ‘So I could ask where the fuck your off-button is.’
‘That’s more of, like, a third-date activity.’
I groan, laugh, make a noise I don’t know how to describe. I just know that Heath’s chest is very warm where my forehead thuds against it – that his touch is much the same as it coasts down my spine.
‘Naked breakfast, on the other hand,’ he murmurs, toying with my gaping dress some more, ‘is definitely okay after a first date.’
‘Great,’ I murmur back, and goosebumps sprout beneath my lips. ‘Strip.’
Why I’m surprised that he actually moves as if to yank down his sweatpants, I don’t know – daring him to do anything is like dangling a fucking bone in front of a dog.
He flashes a trail of golden hair that I suspect leads to a very happy destination before I manage to slap his hands to a stop. ‘If only last night was a date.’
Heath sighs. ‘If only.’
I shiver because I’m cold, I tell myself. Not because of a low timbre and husky yearning I don’t entirely believe is forced.
That warm hand takes its sweet time gliding up my back, curling around my shoulder, squeezing before letting me go so slowly, it’s as if it takes actual, physical effort to unstick his skin from mine. Just as leisurely, he slopes out of the bathroom. ‘Take your time. I’ll be in the kitchen.’
‘Fully dressed,’ I call in his wake, earning a grin and a wink and, Jesus Christ, a purposeful flash of tanned, toned ass-check that I suspect might’ve become an entire tanned, toned ass if I didn’t slam the door shut, blocking the view.
I stare at the light-wash grain for too long to be considered normal before wrenching my gaze away, letting out a low, vaguely humorous, partly pained laugh. I have almost zero idea what just happened. How I went from a panicked escape attempt to sure, honey, I’ll stay for breakfast.
I don’t dwell on it. I fear my brain might actually implode if I do. For now, I’m resigned to it just being one of those things. A phenomenon. Inexplicable. Inevitable. I just have to . . . go with it.
I snort. Just go with it.
As if I’ve ever done that in my life.
Showered, slathered in lotion and skincare, and wrapped in a towel that smells suspiciously like the sensitive skin laundry detergent I use, I cautiously ease open the bathroom door.
Part of me expects to find Heath lurking impatiently on the other side – part of me is disappointed that he isn’t.
Instead, all that waits for me is fresh clothes set on a neatly made bed.
And even though I might’ve stretched the limits of that whole take your time declaration – what is a steaming hot shower for, if not to contemplate one’s entire life? – I don’t get dressed right away.
This might not be my first time in Heath’s room, but it is my first time alone.
No watchful eyes to temper any snoopy urges.
A closed door between me and Heath, and some very loud, very moody vocals providing coverage in case I, I don’t know, bump into the bookshelf tucked in the corner and knock over a trophy.
Or a hundred.
He uses one of his many first place accolades as a jewelry stand, leather cords and silver chains looped around a wooden plaque. The thinnest, most vertical of the bunch are stacked with rings in every shade of metal. One acts a makeshift bookend to keep a line of records in place.
It’s so . . . casual. So what, this ol’ thing? So unlike my own victorious collection – I don’t polish my awards or anything, but they’re displayed with neat pride. Or with arrogance, if you’re looking at it through my ex’s eyes.
This is so Heath; so good, and he doesn’t even care.
I look away before I get annoyed.
I look elsewhere and I get . . . something else.
A misshapen spiderweb of string and photographs and little mementos, like movie tickets and receipts, decorates the cream paint of one wall.
So many faces stare at me, people I don’t recognize and people I do; mostly, some combination of Heath and his four musketeers, though Imani’s frequent absence does tip me off as to who took most of them.