Page 35 of About Yesterday (Foothills #5)
He laughed softly under his breath and turned onto his side, facing her. He hooked his arm around her middle and tugged her close, until she was on her side, framed in a snuggly spoon. Graveled but soft as the blanket, his voice lifted as he asked, “Better?”
She snuggled in and whispered, “And you thought hugs don’t fix everything.”
As the wee hours of the morning snailed by, she drifted into the occasional light sleep, but it never lasted long. When she needed to shift, she turned and buried her face in his neck, then to her back, and he adjusted with her each time, not letting her get cold again.
One of the tiny naps began to turn her blood to lead, nonsensical dreams beginning to unfold.
Cole growled softly and sat up. He leaned over and tapped the screen of his phone. “Alright. Close enough. It’s five o’clock.”
Trace jolted back awake, miniature monkeys screeching and throwing their teacups on the floor of the castle.
She rubbed her hands over her face and pouted, grateful to not have to sink further into that bizarre dream.
The one where she’d groped him was much more satisfying, albeit more dangerous.
“Thank fucking goodness,” she grumbled. “Coffee.”
M orning wood sucking all the blood from his brain.
Cole wasn’t nearly ready for conversation or any sort of decision making.
He was surprised he didn’t pass out as he stood, carefully angled away from her to hide the tent-pole that wouldn’t quit since getting a taste of her touch.
Hell, she’d probably been very aware of it, as he’d shifted his groin out of the snuggle every time he realized he was drifting back off to sleep and pressing against her again.
Throbbing so damn hard, he mumbled an acknowledgement to her coffee request, but kept moving to the safety of the bathroom.
He flicked on the light and sneered at his reflection. Hair wild, he was rumpled and sleep deprived. So the one-bed thing wasn’t unfounded. If Trace had made a conscious move, he wouldn’t have hesitated.
The sizzling zing of her hand on his abdomen, slipping down and her fingertips brushing over the length of him.
At first, he’d thought it was some bizarre dream, caught in a blizzard with Trace, calling out for her and unable to find her, then he found her and warmed her up and…
consciousness had flowed slowly into his mind as skin met skin, and he realized she was waking with him.
The sink outside the bathroom turned on, and he could hear Trace brushing her teeth, the coffee pot sputtering its start.
Not a chance in hell he could pee in his current predicament, and no fucking way was he relieving things with her right there. He flicked on the shower and stepped in.
Ice cold water shocked his skin. Goosebumps prickled over his entire body at once.
A cry of surrender rose in his chest, but he swallowed the shock.
Numbness began to set in, at long fucking last. Quickly, he ran soap over his goosebump-roughened skin.
As soon as things painfully and fully calmed, he shut off the water and dried with the plush white hotel towel. Wrapping it around his waist, he stepped out and found Trace bent over, butt sticking out toward him as she sifted through her suitcase.
Puffing out his cheeks, he took a calming breath, averting his gaze so he didn’t have to go back in for another cold shower.
“Coffee’s ready.” She surfaced with a pair of leggings and a fresh workout top, and sports bra in hand. Minimal eye contact, she glanced a look at him, bit her lip, and slipped past him, leaving him standing clueless and more uncertain than ever.
While Trace used the bathroom, he brushed his teeth and tossed on some workout shorts and a sleeveless shirt. Necessary conversation only. That was probably safer than acknowledging what had happened. What could have happened.
He grabbed a pair of Cliff bars from his bag and set one out for her, then stood in front of the windows and munched the quit hit of carbs. Too foggy and disoriented, he alternated chugs of coffee with the sticky snack.
Trace came out in her workout clothes a moment later, opening her snack and nodding toward the door. He hooked a finger through the handles of their water bottles on the way out.
As if ordering them back to bed, the wind pushed against the door. He shoved harder and stepped outside first. Amber lights glowed along the exterior walkway in the pre-dawn haze. The hotel was silent, as all the couples on a weekend getaway probably needed sleep after productive nights.
He paused as they neared the room in the corner. Not everyone took advantage of a quiet morning by sleeping in.
Trace turned at the top of the steps and hooked a question in her pause.
Wicked grin curling up the corners of his mouth, he nodded toward the door. “Listen,” he whispered.
Trace stepped up and stood next to him, leaning without getting too close to the door. Eyes wide, she slapped her hand over her mouth and giggled softly. “Early risers in there,” she whispered through the giggle.
“Wonder who it is.” The door rattled rhythmically against the jamb in a classic bang-bang-bang. He waggled his eyebrows playfully at Trace. “Against the door, this early in the morning? Overachievers.”
She snorted a laugh and said, “The bride and groom. Apparently, they are ignoring the tradition about not sleeping together the night before the wedding.”
Stuffing the last bite of Cliff bar in his mouth, he grinned through chipmunk cheeks. “That’s a stupid tradition anyway.”
As they moved down the steps, she whispered back to him, “I figured against-the-door was only an early-in-the-relationship sort of thing. Before the magic faded to a simmer.”
“More than a simmer happening in there. Good rhythm.”
“True,” she said lightly as they hit the bottom step.
The rain drenched them the moment they hit the asphalt of the parking lot. Not a soul awake—aside from the banging bride and groom—they walked quietly to the hotel gym.
The smaller building across the parking lot was in the same style as the hotel.
The hotel map showed longer term rentals above, with a gym and meeting room on the bottom floor.
Trace keyed in, and the lights flickered lazily on as they stepped inside.
The heat must not have kicked on yet, and the temperature was biting.
Not bad for a boutique hotel, though. Black rubber flooring extended wall to wall, a rack of dumbbells and barbells, a treadmill, elliptical, rowing machine.
If Foothills didn’t follow through on the rumors of a gym going in, he’d have to add a home gym like this to his place.
Once he had a place of his own. Maybe he’d build, but…
maybe he should buy a move-in ready place, to get some distance from Trace sooner.
Nothing would tell her he wasn’t running again like owning his own home.
While Trace aimed for the heat, he headed toward the mats. She wandered over and plucked up a water bottle, tipping her head back as she hydrated before they got started.
Hell, he had it bad. No makeup, hair tied back, freckled cheeks still flushed from the cold wind on the walk over. One of these mornings, he was going to actually melt into a puddle at her feet.
Monday, he was going to start looking for a house.
He laid out their mats in the open area.
As if knowing he was watching, she tightened her gait and was all business.
She turned on the TV and pulled up their workout program, casting it to the TV.
The music of the video fired up, and the trainer went over today’s workout. Going to be a fucking burner, and he was running on empty after a shitty night’s sleep.
After a brief warmup, he followed the trainer and dropped to the ground, using his modifications, keeping in a high plank as he got his shoulder used to the movement, his ankle braced against any twisting.
The workout picked up, and Trace was already starting to level up her workouts. Full of energy, she drove her knees up for full-speed mountain climbers. Not ready for full speed yet, Cole brought one knee up slow and easy, focusing on keeping his form tight.
Twenty-five more seconds on the clock. Without stopping, Trace pouted up at the screen and growled, “Are you fucking kidding?”
He muffled a laugh as he safely walked through the moves.
“What are you laughing at, slowpoke?” Out of breath, she fired him a look, keeping up her pace and sweating hard.
“Hey.” He fired back, grinning as he did, egging her on, “I am listening to my body, per my care plan, Dr. Perry.”
“Smartass,” she growled, but the grin gave her away.
The timer buzzed, and she sat back on her knees.
Next up, burpees.
Trace tipped her head back and whimpered. “Come on. I’m dying here.”
“We could switch to yoga.”
“Yoga is on Mondays and Wednesdays,” she said, flipping her ponytail and lifting a daring look. “You don’t have to work out with me, you know.”
On his knees, he brushed the sweat from his palms. “I’m just helping you to build up that confidence by making you look good compared to my slow-ass moves.”
She hiccupped a laugh, watching him with a shine in her grin, her eyes seeming to hold him deeper than even yesterday, longer than the day before. Stabbed right into the core of him, grasping and sucking him in until he couldn’t see anything outside of her.
M usic pumping, timer running, Trace heard the distant echo of the trainer coaching tips and using goofy humor to keep them motivated. Sitting back on her heels, she flipped her ponytail off her shoulder and shook her head at Cole. “I could go all drill sergeant on you.”
Mirroring her position, he shook his head and laughed, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the dark enthusiasm of it. “Please god no. That was hate at first sight. And last sight. I never want to lay eyes on that asshole again.”
“Not even if it gets you back to fighting form?”
Head angling that slight bit, that subtle, wistful smile teasing at his lips, he huffed a desperate breath of a laugh.