The Magnolia Chronicles: Adventures in Modern Dating(87)

But then one of his big hands found my leg under the table. He squeezed and rubbed his thumb along the hollow of my knee, and I started to believe I'd been all wrong about this man. There was the player and there was the overgrown kid, but there was so much more than that.



Preservation is available now.





Excerpt from Necessary Restorations





Tiel





"Oh, motherfucking hell," I groaned. "I am too old for this shit."

I was offended—deeply, personally offended—by the sunlight. The universe should have known I required some fog and clouds this morning. It also should have supplied a bucket of Gatorade and ibuprofen, and left both within arm's reach.

"God help me, I cannot be responsible for my actions until I've had a bagel and a cappuccino." I groaned again, hoping the sun understood my dissatisfaction, and then I realized two very important things.

First, I wasn't in my bed.

Second, I wasn't alone.

"Hello there," I murmured.

"Why the fuck did we sleep on the floor?" Sam asked, his arms clutching my waist and his head resting on my belly. He looked up, surveying my apartment, and my bladder immediately rejoiced. He was groggy and disheveled, his eye a rainbow of bruises.

And he was shirtless.

Shirtless and tattooed.

Shirtless, tattooed, and wrapped around me like the best holiday garland ever invented.

"I think we had a little party," I murmured, gesturing toward the furniture shoved against the walls and the four empty wine bottles on the kitchen countertop. "And then passed out down here."

"That's right," he said. "They kicked us out of that shithole bar. I remember you saying it was too hot to dance in clothes anyway, and we had to get undressed." He hooked a glance over his shoulder at his black boxers. "Apparently, I agreed with that idea."

"And then we decided it was too hot to get off the floor." I draped an arm over my face and moaned, then studied his tattoos again. "Apparently, you agreed with that, too."

He seemed too well-bred for tattoos. Boys with fancy SUVs and gemstone cufflinks and watches that cost more than I earned in a year didn't get tattoos.

Two doves rested on his shoulder blade, a circle filled with repeating shapes on the other, and an intricate Celtic cross rose from his waist. There were others, smaller ones, on his sides, and another peeking out from his boxers.

These weren't spring break souvenirs or douchey faux-tribal bands. These were artful, significant designs that begged to be touched.

Explained.

I blinked away when he caught me staring.

"I'm never listening to you again," he said. "You're the one who dragged me into that damn elevator in the first place. If I'd taken the stairs, I would've had a decent gin and tonic, a respectable blowjob, and woken up in a bed like a civilized human being."

I felt his gaze land on my chest, a warm lick of attention, and I looked up to find him smiling at me. I didn't know what it was about this boy, but every time he smiled at me like that, all I could think was, Oh shit.

This wasn't dimple game. This was dimple war strategy.

I stared at him for a long moment, not sure whether I wanted to laugh or beat him with a broom. "Admit that dancing in your underwear is more fun."

"I will do nothing of the sort…but you…um," he stammered, angling his chin toward my chest. "You look good in that."

And yeah, like all the best hungover train wrecks in town, I was wearing nothing more than his tank and a pair of ratty blue panties. I smelled like stale wine, my morning breath could murder woodland creatures, and my thighs, in all their plump, unshaved glory, had been inches from Sam's face. He wouldn't be agreeing to much more alley kissing and friendly snuggle parties after this.

"Yeah, I really do need that cappuccino. I'm not fit for human interaction," I mumbled. I untangled myself from Sam's grip, slipped into the bathroom to put myself back in order, and prayed for the day when thinking about coffee would make it magically appear at my apartment.

After showering and changing into clean clothes, I felt a bit less like roadkill.

Just enough to know I practically threw myself at Sam last night, and then ordered him to strip down to skivvies and dance in my living room.

Classic post-traumatic response, right?