How to Fail at Flirting(38)

He’d said he didn’t want to be the guy with baggage, and I was hiding a full set behind my walls.

“In the last few days,” he said, his voice still low and solemn, “I’ve been more myself with you than I have with anyone in a long time. Can we still have one more night?”

I wanted to tell him not to lie to me again, but what kind of unreal hypocrisy was that? I nodded, lifting my chin to meet his eyes. “One more night.”





Twenty-two





The faint smell of sandalwood filled my nostrils, and I pressed my face into the soft surface of my pillow. Slowly, awareness knitted together around me, and I smiled before my eyes opened. Jake’s face was inches from mine, and the heat from his body made me crave more contact with his skin. He gazed at me from under impossibly thick eyelashes. How long had he been watching me sleep? God, those eyes. The window behind him showed a flat gray sky, no trace of sunshine on our last hours together. Fitting.

“Good morning.”

At the sound of his gravelly morning voice, heat rose on my cheeks and spread across my chest as the memories from the night before flooded back. The feel of his hands and mouth, and how he’d looked at me like a crystal clear deluge.

I rubbed my eyes, stifling a yawn. “What time is it?”

“It’s after eight.” His voice was raspy and just above a whisper. “I woke up maybe an hour ago.”

Under the blanket, his finger touched mine. It was a tiny, soft gesture, the smallest point of contact—a sweet reconnection. “But I didn’t want to leave you yet,” he added.

When he spoke, images of squirming toddlers and reading the paper together in bed ran unbidden through my mind. Pull it together, heart.

I admired the line of his biceps cradled beneath his head and changed the subject. “Was I interesting while I slept?”

“Very.” A second finger met mine under the blankets.

“Talking? Something sultry and mysterious?”

“No.” He grinned. “Just snoring.”

My expression must have been one of horror, because he laughed.

“Don’t make that face. It was cute.”

“Oh, God. Really?” I raised my hands to cover my face. “That’s so embarrassing.” Maybe my next career move will be writing a book titled How to Fail at Flirting and Still Get Laid.

“No,” he reassured me, a smile in his voice. “It was sweet. A sexy snore, even.” He touched my arm, trying to tug my fingers from over my face.

“I’m going to go hide in the bathroom,” I moaned. I turned to climb out of bed, realizing I was naked and I would have to walk the short distance across the room. Jake must have seen my brow furrow; the mattress dipped as he shifted.

“Here,” he said, handing me his white shirt. “But will you promise to come back if I rescind my snoring comment?”

After I pulled the shirt over my head, I walked across the room, feeling his gaze on me. I could get used to pulling on his shirts in the morning. I smiled over my shoulder, sweetly. “We’ll see.” As I walked, my muscles protested, sore from last night’s workout, and with each step I remembered the ways we’d contorted our bodies on the bed, in the shower, up against the wall. I groaned and then gaped at my reflection in the mirror—my hair was going in every direction and my lips were swollen. I looked happy, too, a small grin pasted onto my face when I remembered the look on his face when I’d woken up. He heard me snoring and still didn’t want to leave. I was sick at the thought of never kissing him again. And that isn’t going to work, girl, because he’s leaving . . . and he’s married . . . and he’s career suicide.

I washed my hands and tried to flatten my hair with my palms, which was as successful as my attempt at getting my emotions back in check—both ended up just as messy for my trying.

I took a deep breath and returned to the room, gripping the hem of the T-shirt and tugging it down.

Jake was sitting on the edge of the bed when I emerged. His hair was mussed, and he smiled, brows lifting. “I like you in my clothes, but you know, I’ve seen you naked a few times now.”

“I know . . . It’s different in daylight.” Stop being so awkward.

“Do you want me to go?” The way his eyes locked with mine, I felt exposed far beyond my body. I didn’t know how one glance could communicate that or could scare me in a way that made my heart jump.

“No!” I walked toward him, letting go of the hem of his shirt. “No, I don’t want you to go. I’m just bad at . . . flirting and being cute. Can we start over?”

He tilted his head, the smile returning to his lips. “Good morning, Naya.” He gripped my waist and pulled me between his spread knees. The skin on his shoulders was smooth and lightly freckled, the muscles solid under my palms.

“Good morning, Jake.”

His smile widened when I said his name, and my anxiety tapered off.

“You seem nervous,” he said, looking up at me, his thumbs rubbing small circles over my hip bones. “And, for the record, I think you’re incredibly skilled at being cute.”

I didn’t answer and, instead, changed the subject. “How did things go yesterday with your—um—with Gretchen?” I couldn’t bring myself to say wife, especially after hearing their conversation yesterday morning.