Chapter 3 Jaylynn
Jaylynn
When I feel Penn stir beside me, I roll onto my side, rest my cheek on my hand, and chirp, “Good morning, lover,” in a sing-song voice so high-pitched it could shatter glass—or at least any illusion of me being cool. Even I wince.
Penn groans and flops onto his back, cracking one eye open like he’s halfway convinced he’s in a dream, or a very weird hostage situation.
The second eye joins the party. He narrows them at me, suspicious, like I’ve just licked his toothbrush or declared myself Queen of Peppermintville.
His gaze drifts over my face slowly, methodically, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.
“Lover?” he murmurs and scrubs a hand through his messy hair, voice rough with sleep when he adds, “Did we…?”
I snort so hard I nearly give myself a headache.
“Oh, hell no.” I throw an arm over my eyes, mostly to hide the fact that I had, in fact, fallen asleep thinking about him.
Specifically, how big he is, how warm he is, how not-terrible it would’ve been to curl up against that wall of muscle like a human-sized teddy bear.
But I can’t let him know that. I’ve got pride.
Dignity. Standards. Also, I’m not about to become another notch in Penn Radford’s bedpost, or, more accurately, another bunny in his harem.
“Jeez,” he says, feigning offense. “Why don’t you tell me what you really think?” He’s still smoothing back his hair, which, annoyingly, looks good even in bedhead form. And those biceps? Rude. Honestly rude.
“I thought I just did,” I mutter, looking anywhere but his arms. Or his eyes. Or his mouth.
He arches an eyebrow. “Then why did you call me lover?”
“Just trying it out,” I say, casual as a cucumber in a gin and tonic. “Seeing how it sounded on my tongue.”
“And?”
I pretend to ponder, tapping my chin. “It was okay. I think we’re going to be able to fool everyone.”
“Great.” He rolls toward me, and the bed dips beneath his weight. Suddenly I’m sliding toward him, our bodies colliding. His arm shoots out instinctively and wraps around me, catching me against his side like we’ve done this a hundred times before. And I freeze.
Like full-body stiff board freeze.
“Relax,” he mutters, his breath tickling my ear. “I know I’m repulsive to you, Jaylynn, but if you flinch every time I touch you, we’re going to blow our cover.”
Blow.
Oh no. Nope. We’re not going there. I do not have the maturity of a twelve-year-old boy. Much.
I clear my throat and force myself to lean into it. Act natural. That’s what lovers do, right? Touch and…exist comfortably in shared beds.
“I think we’re going to have to work on that if we want to pull this off,” he mumbles.
“What are you suggesting?” I ask, careful to keep my tone level. Or as level as it can be when I’m being spooned by the human equivalent of a hockey-playing Greek god.
He smiles at me. Or wait, is that a smirk? Why is he smirking like he knows something I don’t?
“I know this is platonic, and I want it that way,” he says, all calm and rational.
His indifference shouldn’t stab me in the heart, but suddenly I’m wondering why I’m so easily overlooked by a guy with a reputation for having a type.
Which is all types. It shouldn’t sting. I don’t even want him.
Not really. Not outside this fake-fiancé thing we’ve got going on.
So why does my ego feel like it just got dunked in the snow?
Ridiculous.
“Good. I want it that way too,” I say, lifting my chin forcefully. Maybe too forcefully, because now he’s giving me that look. The one that says, I know a lie when I hear one.
“I think we need to practice,” he says slowly, like he’s testing the waters.
I narrow my eyes. “Practice what?”
His smirk widens. “Being…touchy.”
My voice jumps an octave. “Touchy?”
“Yeah. You know. PDA. Public hand-holding. Snuggling. Pretending we can’t keep our hands off each other. That kind of thing.”
My brain short-circuits. “Are you suggesting we run drills? Like… fake kissing warm-ups? Do I need a helmet?”
He laughs. “I was going to start with something simple,” he says, totally unfazed. “Can I put my hand on your arm?”
I blink. “You’re asking if you can touch my arm?”
He shrugs. “Consent is sexy.”
Damn him. He’s right.
I glance down at my arm, then back at him. “Fine. You may… touch my arm.”
He reaches over and lays his hand gently against my forearm. It’s warm. Firm. Weirdly intimate for something so tame.
We stare at each other. “Well?” I ask, voice a bit breathless. “Are we convincing?”
He quirks a brow. “I don’t know. I think we need more data.”
“Oh God.”
“Purely scientific,” he adds.
I think he’s enjoying this. I should be terrified. And maybe, just maybe, not so excited.
“I suppose that’s not the worst idea,” I say slowly.
“No.” Penn grins lazy. “And we’ve already established our worst ideas now, haven’t we?”
Oh, we have.
Unfortunately, my brain decides to show me a fast-forward highlight reel of said terrible ideas.
Turkey Gate, humiliating PR disasters, and my ex with his tongue down some girl’s throat at the Snowberry Falls Christmas lighting.
So yeah. Not exactly the playlist I want running in my head while lying in bed next to my fake fiancé with the body of a Norse god and a grin that should be illegal in all holiday zones.
“Can I touch you somewhere a little more intimate?”
“As long as it’s not one of the bases.”
That makes him chuckle. “Baseball…cute.” His hand moves slowly—deliberately—to my hip, which is exposed because my shirt has risen, and my pants have slipped. The second his skin meets mine, a full-body shiver rolls through me and goosebumps explode across my skin like popcorn in a hot pan.
“You cold?” he asks, brow raised, because of course he notices everything. Like a sexy human lie detector with bedhead.
“Yes,” I lie. “This room is freezing.”
Girl. No. You're toast. And not the dry, whole-wheat kind.
He starts rubbing his hand up and down my side to create friction, as if I’m not already combusting from the inside out. I swear, there’s a needy little pressure point low in my belly that’s about to start applauding him. Wildly. With jazz hands.
“Warm?” he asks, all innocent like.
Oh, if he only knew.
“Yes,” I squeak, voice tight and two octaves higher than usual.
Penn chuckles. “So, you’re not about to bolt to the bathroom and puke up a peppermint stick from the horror of me touching you?”
I roll my eyes. “It’s still early. There’s plenty of time for post-traumatic peppermint shock.”
He smirks. “How about you touch me now?”
And there it is.
I try to act casual. Like this is no big deal. Like I’m not internally combusting at the mere idea of touching him. “I suppose I should,” I concede, and he tugs the blankets down a little to give me access.
I reach out—hesitantly—and lay my hand flat on his chest. Which is…bare.
Bare chest.
Bare.
Chest.
Skin.
Heat.
Muscles that were clearly forged in the gym or by Thor himself.
“Where’s your shirt?” I croak out, like my vocal cords have gone on strike.
He blinks sleepily. “Shit. Must’ve ditched it in my sleep.”
Casual. Chill. Just another night of spontaneous shirt-shedding. And then—dear baby elves—he lifts the blankets, and I get a glimpse of a whole lot of nothing.
As in…nothing underneath.
Like…pant-less. Commando. Stark freaking North Pole naked.
“Uh—” I squeak, and he shifts slightly. His abs ripple under my palm like a well-oiled snow plow. My brain blue-screens. My hand is still on him. Still touching actual, real-life, naked Penn Radford.
And I don’t hate it.
“It’s not looking good, Jay,” he says, voice low, almost teasing.
Yeah, well, I’d like to be the judge of that.
Wait, what the hell am I saying? I need to get away from this man. Immediately. Before I do something extremely un-platonic and end up on his harem list.
I try to roll away, but gravity, and Penn’s stupidly strong, stupidly shirtless body, has other plans. The bed dips under his weight and sucks me back in. I huff. I grunt. It’s not graceful. Meanwhile, he’s under the blankets, rummaging around like one of his aunt’s ferrets trying to find a snack.
“Found them,” he says, voice muffled.
A moment later, his head pops out from the blankets. He twists and contorts himself into some kind of yoga-laced gymnastics move. A final kick sends the covers flying, and he sits up triumphantly.
“Decent.”
Well, decent-adjacent.
“Good,” I mutter, grabbing my robe and marching toward the hot tub. But then his voice floats after me, laced with suspicion and entirely too much amusement.
“Wait…” he calls. “You didn’t take them off me in the middle of the night and do unspeakable things to me while I slept, did you?”
I spin around, one eyebrow raised. “Oh please. If I was going to do unspeakable things, you'd know.”
Wait, what?
His slow, wolfish grin spreads, and I realize too late what I’ve just said.
“Noted,” he says, and settles back against the pillows with a satisfied smirk.
This man is going to be the death of me. And I’m not entirely sure I mind.
“But hey listen. I can only speak for myself. What he did is between him and Santa.” I nod toward the corner, where the elf sits staring at Penn. Penn squints in the direction I’m pointing, and immediately startles.
“How the fuck did he get out of the closet?”
I press my lips together to stifle a laugh. “Maybe you didn’t shut the door tight enough after you stuffed him in there the second time.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “Did you—” He stops himself, shakes his head like he’s afraid of the answer. “Never mind. I don’t want to talk about that thing anymore.”
“Wise choice.” I smirk and move toward the hot tub. Lifting the cover, I dip my fingers in and sigh. “Ohhh, that’s so nice.”
Penn’s watching me now with the same intensity he probably reserves for breakaways and playoff games. “You getting in?” he asks.