Time (Laws of Physics #3)(63)

It was at this point I realized I was very naked. It felt a bit like Adam and Eve discovering their nudity, except without the creepy snake.

“What was in those cookies?” I mumbled to myself, hurrying to the bathroom and rushing through a shower, the promise of more food spurring my movements.

But when I finished and dressed—making sure to put on my tiger-print undies and bra—and Abram and the food still hadn’t arrived, I was at a loss. The B&B’s lack of Wi-Fi was supposed to be a bonus. No Wi-Fi meant less distractions. But I hadn’t even brought a book! Without the distraction of my phone, access to email, or a book, I wandered around the large suite and inspected the photos of gangsters hanging on the walls.

After engaging in a staring match with a photograph of someone named Vincent “The Schemer” Drucci, an open notebook on the living room desk snagged my attention. Meandering to it, I peered down at the open page, recognizing Abram’s handwriting immediately. I scanned the first few lines.



* * *



Your mouth tastes so sweet, your skin is sweet too

Hold still, my love, and let me savor you

Pushing lace aside I ask her, does this taste like candy, I wonder—



* * *



GASP!

I tore my eyes away and took a giant step backward, my hands flying to my suddenly hot cheeks, my skin—everywhere—breaking out in goose bumps.

It was sexy poetry. About us! Based on my body’s crazy lava-like reaction to the first three lines—an explicit and direct window into his beautiful brain—I couldn’t handle it. Catnip and love potion and a mixture of all aphrodisiacs in written word form and in Abram’s handwriting.

Is this what life would be like with a poet? One minute I’m fine, minding my own business, and then the next I’m consumed by lava lust?

Good Lord. Have mercy. Amen.

“Oh no.”

Startled, I turned toward the sound of Abram’s concerned exclamation and I grimaced, my hands falling to my sides. “Ah! Sorry!”

“Who told you—wait, what? Why are you sorry?” Rushing across the room, he shut the suite door with his booted foot and placed three white plastic bags—of what I assumed was takeout—on the coffee table.

“I accidentally looked at your sexy poetry.” My eyes moved over him, gobbling the sight of him up. He wore dark jeans and a black leather jacket over a button down dark blue shirt.

Oh jeez. I wanted him. Right now. Clearly, I was powerless against the power of suggestion where Abram was concerned, and especially when the suggestions were made by his poetry. If he ever turned his sexy poems into a song, I’d be ruined.

But Abram didn’t seem to follow. “Sexy poetry?”

“Your notebook.” I gestured to it, tangentially surprised it didn’t burst into flames, what with all the hot, suggestive thoughts recklessly left on its pages.

“Oh.” He gave me a distracted flash of his dimple, his eyes moving over me like he thought I was adorable. “No, that’s totally fine. Read the whole thing if you want, it’s all about you anyway.”

“Oh my.” My hands came back to my cheeks. Lava-like lust.

“Listen.” Abram’s gaze turned bracing and he encircled my wrist with his fingers, tugging me toward the couch. “Something’s happened.”

I allowed him to lead me. “What? What happened?”

“Last night, when we left the stadium, we were photographed.”

“Oh. Okay.” I twisted my hand so that our fingers tangled together, the smell of food finally permeating my senses. “Hey. Is that Mexican food? You didn’t happen to pick up enchiladas, did you?”

He frowned. “Mona. This is a problem.”

“Is it?” Now I frowned. “You didn’t want anyone to know we were dating?”

“No. That is, I figured it would come out eventually, and I thought I was fine with it coming out now.”

“But now you think everyone knowing is a problem?”

“Yes,” he said emphatically. “Because it’s not just about everyone knowing.”

“Yikes. Did I accidentally flash someone? I knew that skirt was too short. So, Mexican food?”

He looked at me like he thought I was crazy. “No. You didn’t—how can you be—” Abram growled. “Listen. This is important. You didn’t flash anyone, most of the shots are blurry because it was dark. But they’ve got it wrong. They think it was Lisa with me, not you.”

“Oh no.” I grimaced. “I’ll call and apologize to my sister.”

“Mona. They—the websites, the newspapers, social media—they’re having a fucking field day. They’ve dug up old pictures of Lisa, when she was with Tyler, and are making this into a shitstorm. Saying she’s using me to promote his album, claiming that’s why I’ve played his song.”

“Obviously that’s not true. How badly are they treating her? What did they say?”

“They’re relentless, vicious. Saying she’s not good enough for me, saying she’s grotesque, ugly, saying she’s a leech, a user, a gold digger and worse. It’s brutal.”

“Ah, crap. I’ll call her now, let her know we’ll get this all straightened out. Did you get my phone?”