Hitched(70)
“Pranks,” I mutter as I twist off the cap and gulp down every drop of brain-restoring liquid. I remember hiding out under the back porch at my place for what seemed like forever, waiting for Shep to come outside so we could prank him. I remember Colin having an existential crisis about his inability to write songs, and then I remember…
I remember…
“Oh no. No, no.” I sink farther down in my chair, tugging my blanket up to my chin to hide my flaming cheeks seconds before a shadow appears at the entrance to the swanky first-class cubby.
A shadow cast by the long, lanky, yet surprisingly well-muscled body of my best friend. A body I am well acquainted with seeing as I had my hands all over him last night. All over his chest, his biceps, his abs, his ass… The same lovely ass that moves across my field of vision as he climbs quietly over me to settle in his seat, clearly thinking I’m still asleep.
I squeeze my eyes shut and fight to keep my breath slow and even, but I’m a horrible actress, and Colin has superhero-like senses and reflexes. If he weren’t a rock star, he could be a ninja assassin or a cat burglar or something more wholesome that involves a similar skill set, but which I can’t think of at the moment because my mind is not naturally inclined to weave wholesome stories and because I am dying of shame.
Dying—my heart stuttering to a stop and my stomach turning to stone as Colin grabs a fistful of my blanket and tugs it down to reveal my face. “Hey there, sunshine,” he says with a grin. “How you feeling this morning?”
I shake my head and tug the blanket back up.
“That good, huh?” He chuckles and pulls it back down. “Don’t hide. Talk to me. How much do you remember?”
“Nothing,” I lie, leaping at my one chance at salvation. “Nothing between going out to hide under the porch and waking up a few minutes ago. What happened? How did we get here?”
Colin’s full lips purse, and his brown-and-amber-flecked eyes narrow. “Yeah? That’s all?” He brushes a thoughtful thumb back and forth along the line of his jaw, the pad making a soft shushing sound as it disturbs his morning whiskers. He’s rocking a seven-a.m. shadow that makes him look even more like a naughty rock star, but if memory serves, this time it isn’t Colin who can’t be trusted.
It’s me.
The killer’s call is coming from inside the house…
He leans closer. “So you don’t remember kissing me last night?”
I shake my head, wide-eyed in what I hope looks like innocence mixed with utter shock.
“No? Really?” he murmurs, resting a hand on the curve of my hip, making my skin burn even through the covers and the long skirt I’m wearing beneath. “Then I guess you don’t remember dragging me up to your room, stripping off all of your clothes, and riding me like the last roller coaster left standing?”
My eyeballs attempt to leap out of my skull, but thankfully there are muscles and ligaments in place to keep things like that from happening.
There are not, unfortunately, muscles in place to keep my tongue from flapping. “I did not, you dirty liar.”
“So you do remember,” he says, pointing a victorious finger at my face. “Now who’s the dirty liar, Larry?”
Sneak Peek from Pippa Grant!
Love red-hot enemies to lovers, secrets, and marriage of convenience? Read on for a sneak peek at Pippa Grant’s Hot Heir!
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Viktor (aka a royal bodyguard who only thinks hot air is his biggest problem)
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It’ll be fine, Viktor, His Highness said.
Perfectly safe. Nothing to worry about, His Highness said.
You wouldn’t want to disappoint Gracie, would you, Viktor? His Highness said.
In my twelve years as lead bodyguard to His Highness—Prince Manning Frey, third son of the king of St?lland—I’ve learned to never trust It’ll be fine, Viktor.
But in the seven months since Miss Gracie Diamonte became a permanent fixture in His Highness’s life, I’ve yet to learn that sometimes, she must be disappointed.
Were she unpleasant or loud-mouthed or the scheming sort—like the woman I currently find myself attempting to not throttle—it would be far easier to tell Miss Diamonte no. That it’s not the best idea to take a balloon ride over town to view this Grits Festival from above. But His Highness has sworn his eternal love and allegiance to a woman sweeter than honey and kinder than a saint who also bakes the most marvelous cookies I’ve ever had the pleasure of tasting.
If angels are real, Miss Diamonte is surely one of them.
Again, very much unlike the woman I currently find myself struggling to not strangle.
Were we anywhere other than a hundred meters in the air in the scorching midday heat of a record-breaking Alabama summer day, held aloft only by the flame of a hot air balloon that neither of us knows how to operate, with sirens flashing on the roads below us as the local authorities attempt to chase us by ground, I would consider baiting this woman who is the very antithesis of His Highness’s dear Miss Diamonte.
I do quite enjoy baiting Miss Peach Maloney when the opportunity presents itself.
At the moment, however, I’d far rather get us back safely to the ground. “Madame, you own a flight adventure company,” I remind her. “I daresay this current predicament is your specialty.”