The Do-Over (The Miles High Club #4)(34)

“Some fucker is waking me up with dumb questions about 2 Minute Noodles.”

Christopher chuckles, and he mindlessly runs his fingers up my arm. “Come on, Grumps, come with me.”

“Hmm, I don’t feel like it.” I screw up my face. “I’m tired and hungover.”

“Me too.” He sits up. “Come on.”

“Why can’t you go alone?”

“Why would I want to go alone when I have you as a personal bodyguard?”

“Call your chickie birds from last night,” I reply dryly, my eyes still closed. “They’ll go.”

“I’m not hanging out with them,” he says as if disgusted by the suggestion. He gets out of bed. “When we get back, Basil and I are going to do our washing. Aren’t we, Baz?”

“Fuck off,” Basil grumbles from under his pillow. “Who thinks of this shit first thing in the morning? I’ve never met someone who is so horny over soap. I’m not washing clothes; I washed them last week.”

“You wash everything each time it’s worn.”

“Who does that?” Basil scoffs.

“Men who get laid, that’s who.”

I can’t hide my smile. How is this man so endearing? I should hate everything about him. “Speaking of soap, I need to shower.”

Christopher holds his arm out toward the door. “Your five-star spa is ready and waiting.”

I giggle. The shitty dorm-style bathroom is definitely not ready or waiting.

“I’ll get our things from the lockers,” he offers.

“Fine . . .” I sigh.

He disappears out into the corridor, and I smile goofily up at the bed above me.

“I hate how he’s all perky in the morning,” Bernadette says.

“That’s because he got tag teamed last night by two stunners,” Kimberly replies.

I get a vision of him rolling around in the sheets with those two girls, and my face falls.

Jealousy twists in my stomach. I wonder, Will he see them again?

Of course he will . . . this is who he is.

Stop it.

It’s not like that between us, I remind myself. He can do whatever he wants to whoever he wants.

The door opens back up, and he sticks his head in the door. “Just checking you’re up.”

“My god,” I snap. “You’re so annoying.”

“We have to go soon.”

“Why?”

“Because I need food.”

“Aren’t we going out for lunch?”

“Breakfast too. You’re paying.” The door closes, and I smirk again.

Dick.



We stand at the side of the busy road. Traffic is whirling past.

Christopher looks left and then right, then left again. “Come on.” He grabs my hand and pulls me across the road.

“Where is the bank?” I ask.

“Just down here.” He holds his phone up and follows the map.

“How did you lose your card again?” I ask.

“Oh . . .” He rolls his eyes. “You don’t want to know.”

“How?”

He pulls me along by the hand. “Let’s just say I had an unpleasant zoo experience on my first night here.”

I frown as we walk. “What does that mean?”

“I went home with this girl, and when she undressed, she was so hairy that I thought I was with a gorilla, and I went in the bathroom to call my brother and freak out, and I left only to find out that she had stolen my card and wiped my bank account clean,” he blurts out in a rush.

I blink, horrified.

“I know.” He shakes his head.

“What’s wrong with hair on a woman?” I ask as I’m dragged along.

“Oh my god . . .” He rolls his eyes. “Not you too.”

“Well?”

He shrugs. “I don’t like it . . . and it’s my prerogative not to personally like it.”

“What?” I shriek. “What do you mean you don’t like it?”

“I mean, normal hair . . . fine. Never cut, never waxed . . . growing-a-vegetable-patch-down-your-legs-style, no fucking way.”

I giggle . . . jeez, that reminds me, I need a trim. Hmm, better buy some scissors.

Maybe a home wax kit?

We get to the bank, and he walks in and over to the counter. “Take a seat.” He gestures to the chair.

“I’ll come.” I stand beside him as he talks to the teller.

“Hello, I lost my card and ordered a new one. I got a text this morning to say it was here at this branch, ready to be collected,” he says.

“Okay.” She smiles. “Identification, please.”

He slides it over, and she enters the information into her computer. She waits, and then her eyebrows shoot up. As if surprised by something, she looks between him and the screen. “Mr. Miles?”

He cuts her off. “Yes. Card, please.”

“Just a minute.” She toddles off.

“What’s wrong with your account?” I whisper.

“She’s mortified by the lack of money in it,” he whispers back.

I giggle. “Aren’t we all.”

He gives me the side-eye.