Bait (Wake, #1)(10)

However, at that moment, I was sober. I had no excuses. Not his naked body. Not his pretty smile. Not his sexy, messed-up hair. Not the way his body pulled me to him. Nothing.

“As much fun as that sounds, I really need to be getting around. I have to find some clothes and I will perish if I don't get coffee soon.”

“Perish? We don't need that.” He sprung up and the sheet fell away from his body. He stood and looked around. It shocked me. He hadn't any modesty. It must have been written all over my face. I could feel my eyes about to bug out of my head.

“I know what you're thinking. How is he going to fit that big dick into those jeans, right? I get that a lot.” He rocked his hips forward, unashamed of his obvious arousal, and made a face like he was thinking, “Yeah.”

“Oh my god. Were you like this last night? Maybe I do have some regrets,” I said, only trying to toy with him.

He huffed. “Ouch.” He jumped up and down, getting his jeans on, all the while searching for his shirt, scanning my room. “There it is,” he said as he walked past me to the place where his shirt was wadded up on the floor. That was when I realized I'd been naked the whole time.

Where the f*ck was my brain? Here I was thinking how brazen he was and I was as naked as the day I was born. Newly aware of my exposure, I almost yelped and scrambled for the robe beside the bed.

I wrapped it around myself and fumbled for the fabric belt to tie around and hold it shut. Casey walked to me and found the two ends that I had been looking for. He held them apart. Then, he quickly opened both sides of the robe and said, “Damn,” before tying the robe closed. He chastely kissed my forehead. “I had to have one last look.”

The word “last” made my stomach roll. Last.

He motioned to the bathroom, silently asking if he could use it. I waved my hand showing I didn’t care.

“How about I go downstairs and give you a few minutes and then I take you to coffee?” he offered from behind the closed bathroom door.

I should have stopped it right there. I bit at my thumb, in private, considering what to do.

I'd probably see him later that night and having coffee, and spending any more time with him than I already had, would be detrimental. To my relationship. To my life. To my sanity.

“I don't know. I think I'll grab a quick coffee and hit some shops. I really have a lot to do.”

He came out of the bathroom and demanded, “Don't tell me no. I'll be downstairs.” Then he left. It was obvious that I truthfully couldn't tell him no. So, again, I didn't fight it.



When I got downstairs, he was waiting for me near the door. He looked carefree and comfortable. I felt anything but. My legs moved me forward—my body on autopilot—and I went straight to him.

“’Bout time,” he teased. It had only been about ten minutes. Hell, I was still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Only running a comb through my hair before gathering it up into a messy knot on my head, and brushing my teeth, I looked like a hot mess. With my bag slung over my shoulder, I only answered with, “Coffee,” as I slid my sunglasses over my eyes.

Casey ushered. “Right this way.”

We walked down the sunny street and I was thankful we were in a part of town littered with shops. I didn't care for shopping. I hated malls. I hated feeling like a consumer on a conveyor belt. When I shopped, I preferred stores like the ones we were walking past. I mentally noted to hit a few of them after we got coffee.

“Stop, I'll be right back.” Casey rushed into a store and glanced at me through the window, holding up his index finger. When he came out, about five minutes later, he had two big coffee mugs and wore a pair of lime green sunglasses. One mug was bright yellow and the other was black and white striped.

“I like the sunglasses. What are these for?” I asked pointing at the mugs.

“What do you think they're for?”

“Well, they're coffee cups, but I don't get it. We're going to a coffee shop, right? In my experience, they give you a container with which to drink your coffee from.”

“Gross,” he said and tugged at my arm to continue us down the street. “You're a chef, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you should get it.” His voice was coated with something like annoyance. “Okay. Imagine the perfect steak. You eat meat, right? Otherwise this analogy won't work.” He looks at me and lifted his glasses.

I lifted mine, too, and said, “I love meat.” Then I gave him an exaggerated wink.

“Perfect.” He continued and weaved us around a couple who were window-shopping. “Okay, so you have this steak. It's perfect. Just the right cut. Grilled to heavenly, juicy awesomeness. Shit, I need a steak. Anyway, there has never been, nor will there ever be, a better steak than this one. Now, picture eating it off of a paper plate. Yuck.”

I laughed. “Oh, so you're crazy?”

“That's how I feel about drinking out of paper. This coffee shop,” he stopped us in front of a beautiful brick building, with a chalkboard sign that read The Best Sip and their specials, “has exceptional coffee. Drinking it out of paper should be criminal. It's blasphemy.” He was so animated and quite obviously very passionate about his beverages.

Casey Moore had so many moods. At the bar, he was closed off and reluctant to talk to me at all. Then when he did, he was cocky and bold. The morning had exposed yet another facet of his personality. He was playful and a little eccentric. I wondered if I’d enjoy them all, because so far I had.