Rock Chick Regret (Rock Chick #7)(67)

I tried to stop thinking about how well he moved.

“Um…” I muttered. “Isn’t it kind of early to go to bed?”

And it was early, at the latest nine.

“Yeah,” he said and dumped some clothes on the hamper. They immediately tumbled off the top and fell on the floor. He apparently didn’t notice this. He twisted and tossed his boots into the pile by the wall. I watched them sail and land with a thump.

Then my eyes went back to him, I caught the crowned skull again before he turned and came to the side of the bed.

“Should we watch TV or something?” I suggested.

He was carrying his jeans. His eyes came to me as he dropped his cell on the bedside table and then emptied his pockets.

There was something immensely weird but very lovely, snugly, comfy, warm about sitting in his bed and watching Hector empty the pockets of his jeans. Before I could plumb the depths of this weird, lovely, snugly, comfy, warm feeling, Hector spoke.

“Yeah,” he said again, his eyes lazy on me and that made me feel weird, lovely, comfy warm too!

“Do you have to move furniture around?” I asked him. “Because, if you do, I can help.”

A glamorous smile hit his mouth and my breath caught. “Move furniture around?”

“You know, downstairs.”

He laughed softly, shook his head and jutted his chin to the wall. My eyes moved to where he was indicating.

Oh boy. We were going to watch TV in Hector’s bed.

This was not good. In fact, how was I here at all? Why did I agree to this?

I rewound the night frantically (even though I’d done the same thing only moments before), it came back to me in a humiliating rush and I swallowed.

I was there for a reason and there I had agreed to stay.

Blooming heck.

“What if we want popcorn? We can’t eat popcorn in your bed,” I told him, sounding maybe an eensy bit desperate.

He twisted, I got a look at the King of Skulls on his back shoulder again, he tossed his jeans in the general direction of the hamper (they hit the target but also rolled off and fell to the floor and he didn’t care about that either). Then before I knew what he was about, he’d turned around, doubled at the waist and put his fists into the bed, close to my thighs.

This meant his face was close to mine.

“First of all, mamita, I don’t have any popcorn. Second, you barely touched your dinner. Now you wanna eat?”

I thought fast (this, by the way, was not easy).

“My mind was occupied at dinner. Now, I’m feeling peckish,” I lied. I would probably throw up if I ate anything, I was so nervous.

He shook his head laughing low again then lifted up, pulled back the covers and slid in.

My heart stopped.

He arranged the pillows behind his back (I will note, he completely devastated my efforts at equal pillow disbursement of not ten minutes before). His arm curled around my waist and he pulled me backwards so my back hit his side, my legs uncrossed and my shoulder and head were pillowed on his chest.

Oh, I got it. I didn’t need pillows. I was using his chest as a pillow. So that was why he could hog them all.

I felt him move, saw his hand holding the remote in my peripheral vision and the TV snapped on, a ballgame appeared and the hand disappeared.

As if he hadn’t just settled us comfortably in his bed like we’d be sharing our golden wedding anniversary the next evening and not doing this for the very first time ever, he continued the conversation.

“Your mind at dinner was occupied with an attempted freeze out which, mi cielo, is cute, I gotta admit, but it’s only fair to let you know, it’s not gonna work.”

My body went still. He thought the Ice Princess was cute? Cute?

The Ice Princess was not cute! I knew grown men that feared her!

Well, maybe not feared, perhaps they just disliked her and gave her a wide berth.

It was good I was moving to Crete because if he thought my Ice Princess was cute then I was in a mess of trouble.

“We’ll order a pizza if you’re hungry,” he told me.

I crossed my arms on my chest, stared at the TV and contradicted my earlier lie, “I’m not hungry.”

His arm came around me, his forearm resting on my chest, his fingers curled around my opposite shoulder.

“You want something, let me know,” he said and he sounded distracted.

Obviously the game had called his attention.

So I thought it might be safe to ask an eensy, teensy, tiny, little personal question just because I was dying to know and since I didn’t get the gift I intended to give myself that evening, I was going to go for something different.

“What’s the tattoo on your chest mean?” I asked casually like whatever answer to a brokenhearted tattoo question would mean nothing at all whatsoever to me.

“Belinda,” he replied, still sounding distracted.

I was not distracted. My body went still again.

“Belinda?” I asked.

“My ex,” he answered.

Oh… my… God.

He had a tattoo of a broken heart on his chest. No, he had a tattoo of a broken heart over his heart on his chest! A tattoo he got for Belinda!

“Was it a bad break?” I was still going for casual but my voice sounded breathy.

Now, why did I ask that? Why? What was wrong with me? Now I was punishing myself and getting myself into stupid, terrifying situations.