Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
Lottie
“Do not tell me what to do.” I’m horrified by the fact that I’m still somewhat caught up in his sheets right now. Behind me, Wes lets out a low, sleepy laugh that only irritates me further.
“I wasn’t telling you what to do,” he says. “I was just hoping we could talk.”
“I’m leaving.”
“Mm. You sure you’re coordinated enough for that?”
Ugh.
Ignoring him, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and immediately regret every life choice I’ve ever made.
My head pounds so hard I actually wince.
The mattress shifts behind me as Wes stands.
I tell myself to avoid looking directly at him, but that lasts all of two seconds because unfortunately, I have eyes…
and Wes Winters in black boxer briefs should probably be illegal.
My gaze catches first on his chest, all hard muscle and bronzed skin, then lower to the sharp V of muscle disappearing beneath the waistband of his boxers alongside a dark trail of hair that absolutely does not help my current emotional state.
Neither does the very obvious bulge pressing against the black fabric.
My face instantly catches fire, and I jerk my eyes away so fast I nearly give myself whiplash.
Nope, absolutely not. I am not looking at that before coffee. I need to be able to think straight.
“You okay there, Peach?” His voice is way too amused.
Peach?
“I hate you,” I mumble.
“That seems harsh, especially considering that I gave you my shirt and prevented you from climbing into my bed in nothing but your underwear.”
My head snaps toward him. “What?”
He rounds the corner of the bed, making it look annoyingly easy, and stretches one arm over his head.
Fuck my life, every muscle in his stomach shifts underneath his skin in a way that has my panties instantly damp.
“You started to take off your clothes,” he explains casually.
“I stopped you before things got out of hand, gave you one of my T-shirts, and turned around while you changed.”
“I did not take off my clothes in front of you.”
Wes smirks. “You absolutely did.”
Mortification burns through me.
“I stopped you before you took off your shirt,” he continues, far too calm about this entire situation. “You were very argumentative about it, by the way.”
“That sounds nothing like me.”
His mouth twitches. “You called me a ‘Bossy Pilot Ken Doll.’”
I cover my eyes. “I’m moving out.”
A quiet laugh escapes him as he steps around the side of the bed, accidentally blocking my path toward the door with approximately six feet two inches of extremely hard male body.
Being this close to him makes everything worse.
The soap-and-cedar smell of him, his messy dark hair, the sleepy gravel in his voice.
My pulse starts thudding all over again.
“What happened last night?” I ask quickly, because I need answers immediately before my brain self-destructs.
Wes’s expression shifts slightly. “Nothing happened.”
I stare at him suspiciously. “Nothing?”
“You drank too much wine.” He crosses his arms loosely over his chest. “We both did. You fell asleep on my shoulder in the kitchen while lecturing me about the price of flying.”
I nod. “That does sound like me.”
“Mm.”
“And we didn’t…” I trail off awkwardly, gesturing vaguely between us.
His gaze flicks over my face for one brief second before returning to my eyes. “No, Lottie,” he says quietly. “We didn’t have sex.”
The relief that crashes through me is immediate and so intense my knees almost give out. “Oh, thank God.”
I drop heavily back onto the edge of the bed, burying my face in my hands while my pounding head threatens to split open completely. “This is the worst hangover of my life,” I groan into my palms.
The mattress dips as he sits beside me, close enough that I feel the warmth of him curling along my skin. I lower my hands just enough to glare at him through my fingers. Wes’s mouth twitches.
“I might actually die,” I admit with a sigh.
His mouth curves in a smile as he reaches over and gently hooks a strand of my tangled hair behind my ear. The touch is light, careful, but still manages to ignite goosebumps over my skin.
“There she is,” he murmurs. “Now I can see your pretty face.”
My stomach flips so hard, I’m actually mad at myself. I look over at him, his perfectly straight teeth, the silver flecks in his gray eyes, the dark shadow of stubble along his jaw. God, even hungover he’s hot.
“Tell me what happened,” I ask, clearing my throat.
Wes leans back slightly beside me, one muscular arm braced behind him against the mattress. He doesn’t look real—more like someone sculpted by a very generous God.
“We had a lot to drink,” he says simply.
“I gathered that.” A blurry memory flashes through my throbbing head: Me sitting in the kitchen, tears burning at the back of my eyes as I talked about my dad. And Wes sitting next to me, listening.
“You got emotional talking about your parents.” His expression softens slightly. “Mostly your dad.”
“I cried?” I ask flatly.
“A little. You were cute.”
I stare at him in horror. “That doesn’t explain how I ended up in your bed.”
He makes a visible effort to suppress his smile and fails spectacularly. “I hate that you’re enjoying this.”
“I’m just enjoying how dramatic you are.”
I open my mouth to argue, but then another fragment of memory flashes through my head. Wes and I in the dark kitchen, his arm around me, my face pressed into his chest. “I remember being tired,” I admit slowly.
“You could barely keep your eyes open.”
“And then?”
Wes glances down briefly, one large hand dragging lazily over his stomach, looking completely unaware of the way every hard muscle flexes.
He stretches out, completely relaxed while I try my best not to drool.
My gaze betrays me, dropping lower to the deep cut of his obliques.
His fingers spread low across his abs before he looks back at me, looking like he’s really loving this.
“You said you didn’t want to sleep alone. ”
Heat rushes my cheeks. “I did?”
Wes nods slowly. “You did.”
I actually groan. I’m not sure how this could be more embarrassing.
“I’m moving to another country.”
“You also told me my chest was ‘the hottest thing you’d ever seen up close.’”
“Yup, packing my bags today.”
“I brought you upstairs, gave you a shirt, and you passed out approximately thirty seconds later.”
“And nothing happened?”
Something unreadable passes through his expression before he answers. “Nothing happened.”
“My head hurts,” I tell him, relief washing over me.
Beside me, the mattress shifts slightly before I feel his fingers brush lightly against my arm. “You need water,” he says. “And probably painkillers.”
I look over at him and once again my eyes betray me, dipping lower… then lower.
His mouth curves slowly. “See something interesting?”
I snap my gaze upward. “No.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m hungover.”
A devious smile spreads over his face, and I have the overwhelming urge to punch him.
“Lottie?” he says.
“What?”
“You were absolutely staring at my dick.” He grins.
“I hate you,” I cringe.