Page 48 of A Wreck, You Make Me (Bad Boys of Bardstown #3)

Chapter Eighteen

After our chat, Snow and I watched a movie together in her bedroom before we ate dinner.

I gave Snow her medication, then tucked her in like she’s five and not seventeen and she let me because she knows I’m still freaked out about everything that’s happened.

And then, I went downstairs to finish the last of my unpacking and setting up my room before getting ready for bed.

Since then I’ve been trying to fall asleep, even though I know this is too early for me.

Over a year of working late nights at the strip club has turned me into a night owl.

Not to mention, there’s this other reason I haven’t really been able to sleep these past few weeks. The fact that somehow I got used to—more like, addicted to—him sneaking into my room while I slept. As if keeping a watch over me. While also watching me on his phone.

And now I know I definitely won’t be able to sleep, because he’s here.

Before I can overthink this, I throw the covers off and jump out of bed.

I open the nightstand drawer, retrieve what I need, put it in my pajama pocket and run out of the room.

I know I should walk slowly and pace myself a little bit, but my feet don’t listen.

They carry me as fast as they can until I reach the kitchen, where I know he is because I can hear him moving around.

I also realize how he’s trying not to make any loud noises by quietly shutting the fridge and the cupboard doors.

But again, before I can dwell on that, the fact that he’s being considerate because he knows he’s not alone in this house anymore, I reach my destination and clap my eyes on him after two whole weeks.

He’s standing at the sink, facing away from me, but it doesn’t matter.

Because as soon as I see him, every thought in my head comes to a screeching halt, like my body.

Because he’s naked.

As in, his chest is naked. As in, he’s not wearing a shirt.

Why is he not wearing a shirt? More importantly though, is this real?

The massive breadth of his shoulders—that I of course knew about and also held on to several times, but somehow, didn’t realize the impact of until I saw him shirtless—and those wing-like muscles on his back that twitch from his movements.

That flutter as he raises his arm and throws his head back to drink from the water bottle he’s got in his hands.

Now I know why they’re called shoulder blades.

Because of how sharp they are, how lethal they look standing out in stark relief.

Or at least, his do.

As he lowers the bottle, I move my eyes and go down his spine and the tapering line of it, and realize his waist is as sleek as his shoulders are broad. And again, I should know this because I’ve seen him before. But I’ve never seen him without his shirt on, so I didn’t realize exactly how sleek.

And oh my God, stop everything . Are those two little dimples on his back?

Just where the waistband of his gray sweatpants hangs low.

They are, aren’t they? And well, no one can blame me for not breathing for a few seconds at the sight of those cutest little things, because I may have known about the broadness and the sleekness and whatnot, but I definitely did not know about his dimples.

I definitely did not know that my throat would go dry as my mouth filled with saliva at the same time because I’d want to dip my tongue in them.

All of this before he at last turns around, and then I have to take a step back because now I’m bombarded with the sight of his chest. Which is, of course, as massive as his shoulders, and while his back had those wings, his chest has tight and arched planes with small, quarter-sized nipples.

Which I can’t believe I’m thinking about licking like I wanted to lick his dimples, but I am.

And then I’m thinking about licking his six-pack abs.

Because he’s got it. A six-pack, I mean.

Again, I knew about them, and I knew about them in more than a vague sort of way.

Because every night for a little while back there, I felt them against my body while I danced in his lap.

I felt them against my own soft belly. One night, I even came because he made me hump that muscled ladder of this stomach— God, don’t think about that —while I twisted my hips, but still, I didn’t know how…

magnificent they actually are until I looked at them.

Or how I also want to dip my tongue in his tight belly button before going even lower than that. To that bulge in his gray sweatpants…

At which point I skitter my gaze up and finally look at his face. Which is beautiful, as always but is also tight and harsh as he stares back at me, his jaw clenched. His stance wide and his fingers clutched against the empty bottle. Probably angry, definitely annoyed.

“Hi,” I blurt out.

His jaw clenches harder, as if my voice, along with my presence, is also annoying to him.

I wring my hands in front of me. “So, uh, we’re all moved in.”

At this, a tic starts up in his jaw, which means I’m getting even more annoying by the second and should probably get away from him this instant.

“But of course, you already know that,” I say, before adding silently, since you knew not to come home until you thought I’d be safely in bed . Then, “So, uh, I just…” I shake my head, clenching my eyes shut for a second. “I’m sorry, but why don’t you have a shirt on?”

At this, he finally deigns to reply. “Because I went running before I got home.”

“Right, okay,” I accept, trying to keep my eyes away from his bare chest, but now it’s even harder because I finally realize he’s sweaty.

I wonder why I didn’t notice this before.

I mean, he’s glistening with it, his sweat.

I notice a drop sliding down the side of his neck and dripping over his collarbone.

I guess, I was just so taken with his bare body and all his wonderful muscles that I didn’t take stock of anything else.

“And because it’s always such a pleasure being ogled,” he says, sarcasm thick in his words.

I blush fiercely and duck my head. “I’m sorry. I just?—”

“Is there something you need?” he asks, and I look up.

Only to realize he’s moved away from the counter and is now closer to me. “Not really. I just?—”

“So is there something I can help you find?” he asks, cutting me off and walking closer.

I swallow, taking a step back. “N-no. They all showed me where everything is. You know, Callie and Ledger and uh, everyone else.”

He keeps our gazes locked as he keeps advancing on me, not by one step or even two. He just keeps coming at me as he goes, “Because see, I’m not really the help or even remotely interested in playing host to you. But I can make an exception tonight, given this is your first night under my roof.”

I keep going back until my spine thumps against the opposite wall, just under the stairs. “Are you r-referring to the first night we met?”

The night of his engagement, when he found me hiding behind a tree, drinking stolen champagne. The night I really was the help, and he was the star of the party with the love of his life by his side.

He stops a few inches away from me, his eyes taking me in. “That was the first time you spoke to me. We met each other a long time ago though, didn’t we?”

I swallow and plaster my hands on the wall. “Yes.”

He narrows his eyes and keeps going, “Maybe even longer than I realized.”

My heart constricts in my chest at the reminder of all the lies I’ve told him and all the things I’ve omitted.

At this urge to tell him exactly when we met, or rather, when I saw him for the first time.

It was in this house, through the window of the same bedroom I’m staying in.

Because it’s not just a room, it’s his. He gave it up for me.

Just one of the things I need to talk to him about tonight.

But for some reason, it’s really hard to say anything useful so I ask, “H-have you eaten?”

His only response is to keep staring at me like my question doesn’t deserve an answer.

I swallow. “There’s tons of dinner in the fridge. Callie?—”

“I’m not hungry,” he clips.

“But you just went for a run, and you’re training so hard for your season?—”

“Get to the fucking point,” he orders then.

Right. Right.

He’s right. I came here for a reason, and there’s no use dragging this out. So I swallow again. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“And yet here you are,” he says.

“I—”

“So clearly I’m not doing a good job of sending the message,”

“I know what you said,” I say. Then, correct myself, “As in, I remember what you said. That n-night.”

His jaw hardens even more if possible, and I can feel his anger like the touch of his rough hands. Still, I keep going, “A-about staying away from you and your f-family and I just… I want you to know if it wasn’t for what happened with Snow, I would never have?—”

“I know,” he says, his mouth so tight that it barely moves with his words.

“A-and I also want you to know that I didn’t do it on purpose,” I continue. “Become friends with Callie, I mean. My friendship with Callie is real. In fact, I avoided her for over a year before I even talked to her. But then?—”

“I know,” he repeats in the same tight, brittle tone.

“How?”

“Because you avoided me for fuck knows how long too,” he says, his tone biting now, and I flinch. “So yeah, I know.”