Hook, Line, and Sinker (Bellinger Sisters, #2)(33)

When the door to his bedroom opened and he breezed out, mid-yawn, in nothing but black briefs, Hannah ran smack into the side of the couch, sending a jolt of pain through her hip. It sent her stumbling back a couple of feet, her ass bumping into a floor lamp. Seriously, leave it to her to find two of the only pieces of furniture in the extremely sparse apartment and hit them . . . and now she was staring. Of course she was staring. What else was she supposed to do?

Fox was coming toward her with a lopsided grin and barely any clothes.

Dimples out. Ready to film a razor commercial.

And whoa. Until that moment, she hadn’t even been aware of his tattoos.

The outline of an actual fox stretching across his right hip, a giant squid wrapped around an anchor on the left side of his rib cage, a series of different-sized stars on his pec, plus other ones she didn’t have the wherewithal to decipher because his muscles were demanding attention. Were muscles supposed to be so thick? Yes. Yes, because he hadn’t bought these in a gym. He’d come by them hauling giant steel pots out of the water, pulling in nets of fish, from balancing on a deck during rough weather.

“Whoa there, Freckles,” he said in a raspy morning voice, tipping his head toward the teetering lamp. “Still getting your sea legs?”

“Um . . .” Resolutely, she looked down at the floor. “I guess I’m more hungover than I realized. Better lay low tonight.”

The closer he came, the stronger the scent of ginger. And the harder it became not to look at Fox in all his nearly naked glory. Listen, Hannah got horny with the best of them. Once in a while, at least. Mostly when listening to Prince. But the times she’d felt slightly wanting and uncomfortable were a far cry from this cinching of muscles, this filtering of warmth to her private areas.

Guilt invaded her middle. Not quite enough to scare off her lady boner, but enough to mentally berate herself for being a bad friend. How was Hannah any better than the girls who’d called dibs on Fox at the party on Friday night?

“I, um . . .” She tipped her head down so the wet hair would curtain her face. Must resist the call of those chisel-cut hip abductors. “There’s an early call time. I need to hurry up and get down there.”

“Where are you filming today?”

Was his voice closer than before? The goose bumps racing up her skin made her wish dearly for something more substantial than a towel to cover herself. “We’re shooting on the harbor. A kissing scene, actually. The big finale. We should have the lighting we’ve been waiting for.”

“Finale?” he echoed quickly. “You just started.”

“We don’t always shoot the scenes in order. Sometimes it depends on the availability of the locations . . .” He stepped in front of Hannah, giving her no choice but to look up at the ceiling, where she pretended to search for cracks. Otherwise she wouldn’t trust herself not to stare straight into the eye of the storm.

Also known as his crotch.

“You can’t look at me, can you?” Fox said, amused. “I’m not used to having someone else in the house. You want me to put on sweatpants next time?”

Jesus, no, screamed the pervert who had rented space in her head.

“Yes, please. And I’ll . . . use my robe, too. I didn’t think you’d be awake.”

The heat of his chest warmed her exposed shoulders, and everything down there turned soft and wet. She became acutely aware of the sound of his hands settling on his hips, skin rasping on skin. His height and strength compared to her.

It was shameful to be reacting to her friend this way.

She obviously wasn’t going to sleep with him. At this juncture in her life, she wasn’t interested in casual sex. Especially with Fox. He didn’t merely eschew long-term, he was all about no term. Having her around afterward would make him uncomfortable, he’d regret getting physical, and that would ruin their friendship.

I’m just a good time, and everyone knows it.

His statement from Friday night drifted into her thoughts, and for some reason, the memory made her want to look him in the eye. He was scrutinizing her kind of expectantly, as if waiting for her to expire from arousal or attempt to climb him. Was he . . . trying to throw her off-balance for some reason? Why?

She couldn’t work through it when that smell was muddling her brain. What kind of nuclear pheromones was this guy giving off?

Very discreetly, she hoped, Hannah inhaled his scent.

“What is that?”

His brows drew together. “What is what?”

“That ginger smell. Is it like . . . lotion or aftershave or something?”

“No.” He smirked. “None of those.”

She waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t. “What is it, then?”

He very briefly touched the tip of his tongue to the corner of his lips, his blue eyes twinkling. “Massage oil.”

Of all the explanations, Hannah was not expecting that. “Massage oil.” She laughed. “Were you, like, giving yourself a massage—” Flames climbed her face. “Oh. Wow. Walked right into that. I . . . Were you . . . d-doing that this morning?” She waved her hands frantically. “Never mind. Don’t answer that.”

His grin only widened. “Yeah, I was. First time I’ve had a chance since our last fishing trip. Had to blow off some steam. Should I have asked permission first?”