A Kiss Like This (Kiss and Make Up #3)(38)

Once inside, I make slow work of the shower, unhurriedly standing under the warm spray of water, massaging the smoke out of my scalp with Jenna’s delicious-smelling shampoo and conditioner. Because I don’t think she’d mind, I also lather myself up with her organic seaweed scrub and shave my legs with her razor before deciding a steaming hot fifteen-minute shower is long enough. It’s been heavenly, considering we have one water heater at our ransack rental, and our shower runtime before the water gets cold tops out at three minutes.

I step out, toweling off with a white, fluffy terrycloth towel, slather my body with lemon body cream, and blow dry my long hair so my bedhead in the morning will only be slightly less tragic, not outright horrific.

Still wrapped in the towel, I paddle my bare feet to the bedroom but find it locked.

I rattle the doorknob and press my ear to the door, listening intently.

Nothing.

Knocking firmly, I hold my towel closed in one hand and clutch my dirty, smoke-filled jeans and sweatshirt in the other.

“Jenna,” I hiss, knocking again. “Open. Up.”

Still nothing.

“I don’t think she’s coming out,” a deep voice intones behind me.

I whip around, and Caleb stands before me, freshly showered and holding a small stack of neatly folded (I squint to get a better look)… white pajamas.

My white pajamas.

Seriously, what is he doing with my pajamas?

Oh my god, shut up, Abigail. Stop saying pajamas.

“She’s in there with Cubby,” he states matter-of-factly, tipping his head toward my closed cabin door. “Pretty sure they’re not coming out anytime soon. These were on the couch.”

“I don’t… get it.”

But I do.

Jenna and Cubby had to have done this on purpose to force Caleb and me together. They’re probably in that room laughing their asses off, quietly muffling their laughter with my freaking pillow.

I’m going to murder her in her sleep.

Freaking. Murder her.

“It’s late. Why don’t you, uh, take these into my room and get dressed,” Caleb says. “Here. Give me those bonfire clothes. I’ll throw them in the wash while you change.”

I hand him my stinky pile of clothes, shivering when our hands brush while making the exchange, and steal away to his bedroom.

I see that Jenna has charitably left me the lacy white sleep shorts, sheer white tank top, and a white thong.

Great.

Since I usually wear Granny panties—no judging, this is a safe place—and don’t want anything riding up my butt, I skip the thong altogether and throw on just the shorts and tank top. I couldn’t feel any more naked if I were actually, well… naked.

Glancing at the clock on the bedside table, I groan at the time: midnight. I’m tired but have no desire to sleep out on the couch—not after the way I woke up this morning, with Cubby and freaking Stephan Randolph watching me get felt up. Watching us.

When I finally get the courage to pull the bedroom door open, Caleb is leaning against the arm of the couch, arms crossed and waiting patiently. He takes me in from head to toe, eyebrows shooting up into his black hairline at the sight of me, his eyes abruptly finding the moose head above the fireplace the most interesting thing in the room.

“You can take the bedroom. I’ll sleep on the couch,” he mutters, still not looking directly at me.

I peer down at my chest and gasp.

My dusky nipples are visible through the sheer white fabric, leaving very little to the imagination without a bra on, and I let out a squeak of dismay.

Shit, shit, shit. If ever there were a curse-worthy moment, it would be this one.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I force out a nonchalant, “Nonsense.” Ugh. Nonsense? Nice one, Abby. Way to sound like Grandma Hazel, who said crap like that back in 1932. “That wouldn’t be fair. I’m the one who got booted out of my room. I’ll take the couch,” I prattle on nervously.

“As a gentleman,” I can see him inwardly groan at his own choice of words, “I can’t let you sleep on the couch.”

“But it’s your bedroom.”

“You shouldn’t have to wake up tomorrow morning with Blaze, Miles and Stephan fuc—I mean, undressing you with their eyes.”

“Really, Caleb, it’s fine. I insist.” His eyes are still focused on that moose above the fireplace as I object. Yet again.

“No, really, it’s not a big—”

“For. Fuck’s. Sake.” An angry voice shouts from one of the two occupied bedrooms. “Stop arguing outside our door and share the goddamn bedroom!”

I’m not sure who the voice actually belongs to, but talk about rude. And pardon my French, but there is no bleeping way I’ll be getting any sleep tonight.

Not. A. Chance…





***

Abby: Help. I’m in way over my head.

Cecelia: Want my advice? Just go with it.

Abby: You always say that!

Cecelia: That’s because I had to learn the hard way to let myself take risks. So, try having fun and stop thinking so much Abby: Easy for YOU to say…

Cecelia: Quit whining. AND PUT THE PHONE AWAY!





CHAPTER 17

Caleb

If I said I’ve never spent the night with a girl in my bed, never had a one-night stand, never gotten sucked or f*cked at a party, I would be lying.