Page 29 of Faking the Pass

The One Bed Situation

R osie

The next morning, I woke slowly, feeling fully rested but too lazy to move quite yet.

Blinking drowsily, I took in my surroundings.

Acres of soft, white bedding. Beyond that, shining tile floors stretched to meet a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, and beyond those, the turquoise blue of tropical waters.

Sheer white curtains fluttered in the breeze from an open window somewhere, but it was warm.

Really warm. Though the mattress was exceptionally comfortable beneath me, I was almost overheated.

I tried to move and then I realized why I was so hot.

There was a heavy arm draped over my waist.

My eyelids flew open, my heart thumping like I’d already had two cups of coffee.

For one terrifying moment, I thought I was somehow back in my ex-fiance’s Malibu beach house and somehow stupid enough to be back in his bed.

Then my mind snapped fully awake, and I realized where I was.

And who I was with.

That arm was way too large to belong to Randy. And the body cradling the entire back of mine was way too long.

Presley .

A new sort of warmth flooded me, concentrated in my lower abdomen. Parts of me that were better off sleeping woke all the way up.

Based on the sound of his breathing, Presley was still asleep. His body was curved around my back and legs like one of those cozy full-body c-pillows.

But those didn’t feel like heating blankets—and they didn’t come with extra lumbar support.

There was an unmistakable firm pressure against my lower back. You know what I’m talking about.

At least I thought I knew what it was—it wasn’t my first experience with morning wood—but that particular sensation had never felt quite like this before. It stretched from the seam of my backside to what felt like halfway up my spine.

It can’t be. I mean, yes, he was a big guy, but… wait, did he bring a tactical flashlight to bed in case of emergency?

I wanted to reach around and find out, but I didn’t dare. Instead, I shifted and did a little wiggle. Presley let out a low groan.

Nope. Not a flashlight. But really ? Was that all him?

And now of course my mind was racing, trying to picture the logistics of how Part capital A could possibly fit into lower-case Part B.

But then there was no way all-star quarterback Presley Lowe was a thirty-four-year-old virgin, so it must have been technically possible, right?

The newly awakened parts of me prepared themselves to confirm or deny, tingling and filling with liquid tension.

Bad, Rosie. Wrong train of thought for someone who was stuck in a one-bedroom house with the guy for a week.

Time to deboard the Hard-on Express and find a new train of thought.

Shower. Yes. That’s what I need.

After a long day of travel yesterday, I definitely wanted one of those.

A cold one, preferably.

Moving gingerly, I attempted to extract myself from the human restraint harness that was Presley’s arm.

He made another sound in his sleep—not a happy one this time—and I realized it was his injured arm and shoulder that were caging me in.

Made sense. He wouldn’t have been able to sleep on the other side.

I really didn’t want to hurt him. But I was trapped there, spooning with the human equivalent of a whale harpoon.

So… I could either lie here and be pelted with uncontrollable sexual fantasies about my fake husband, or I could wake him.

“Presley, wake up,” I said, taking care not to wiggle my bottom again.

In fact I did my best to tuck my pelvis forward and escape the contact—but the damn thing just followed me.

This time my wake up call was louder.

“Presley.”

He lifted his head. “What? What’s happening?”

I knew the second he became fully alert and perceived the problem because he muttered, “Fuck,” and rolled away from me.

I slid from the bed and skittered toward the bathroom, not looking back at him.

“Good morning,” I tossed over my shoulder. “I call first shower.”

When I emerged from the bedroom, clean and dressed and only slightly still thinking about my surprising wakeup call, Presley was coming inside through the slider between the living room and the outdoors.

He’d clearly been swimming because he was wearing a pair of trunks—and nothing else. His hair was wet.

And so was his body.

Droplets of water decorated his wide, muscular chest and slid down over a set of abdominal muscles so perfectly sculpted I wanted to touch them to confirm they were actually real.

Who was I kidding? I just wanted to touch them.

He stopped when he saw me, his eyes roaming in a quick inspection of my outfit, a white, belted romper with a plunging v-neck.

“That might be a little overboard for island-casual,” he drawled, but his expression said he approved.

“Jessica packed my bags, remember?” I protested. “Besides, most of what I had with me at your house were clothes for my honeymoon with Randy. We were supposed to stay at a resort in the south of France.”

Unfortunately, this was the most full-coverage ensemble I had. The other outfits were even skimpier.

Presley lifted his towel to dry his face then scrub his hair.

The motion drew my eyes down his body over his muscular chest and ridiculously defined abdomen directly to the V-lines that marked the area above his hips.

Not only did Randy not have a Great White shark in his pants (more like a guppy) his torso didn’t feature anything resembling V-lines.

In fact, I’d never been this close in person to such a fit human being. It was a little disconcerting.

“Sorry you had to miss out on that,” Presley said as he strolled into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.

Now I got a glorious view of his back, which was at least as muscular and impressive as the front.

“I’m not. This place is better,” I told him honestly. “If you have to go on a forced honeymoon, at least have a gorgeous view.”

Gulping, I corrected myself quickly. “Of the water, I mean. And palm trees. The view outside .”

Presley turned around to face me, grinning in a knowing way. “Yeah, it’s hard to beat the scenery.”

His gaze fell to my cleavage for a half-second before he looked down at the food he’d removed from the refrigerator. He didn’t look up again for a while as he focused on shaving a block of cheese into thin slices with a cheese slicer.

“How long has Wilder had this house?” I asked, watching his big hands work. “Does he really own the whole island?”

Presley glanced up momentarily, frowning. “It’s not that big a deal. It’s a small island, and islands in Indonesia aren’t as expensive as you’d think. There are around eighteen thousand of them, and only about six thousand are inhabited. Plus, the U.S. dollar goes a long way here.”

I was surprised not only by the new information but also by Presley’s odd reaction to my question. He looked and sounded annoyed by my interest in his brother’s vacation home.

“I’m sorry if that was an inappropriate question,” I said. “I was just curious. I’ve never been on a private island.”

Presley’s eyes flicked up, and he looked at me beneath lowered brows. “Sorry. I guess I’m a little sensitive. Wilder’s kind of a hard act to follow, you know?”

Oh. I was starting to understand Presley’s relentless drive to succeed, why he denied himself basic pleasures and even rest.

Whether he wanted to or not, he felt like he was in competition with Wilder, trying to live up to his much-admired older brother’s many accomplishments.

I nodded, and he went on.

“My parents said they used to refer to me as ‘little me-too’ because I used to follow Wild around, trying to copy everything he did. He was so good at everything.”

“He’s pretty impressive,” I agreed.

Presley picked up a knife and started slicing the pear he’d washed, the blade clacking loudly on the cutting board with each downward press.

“I always wished I could win—at anything—even Monopoly,” he said. “Not a chance.”

“Of course he won. He was older and bigger,” I said.

Presley shook his head vigorously. “Nah, it was the same story, even when we grew up, and I sized up to match him.”

“He set college records that may never be broken.”

Presley gestured with the knife in his hand.

“And then he became a Navy SEAL and ran around the globe saving lives and doing heroic shit. When he left that, he started an elite security company that’s made him richer than any of us will ever be.

And then he married a world-famous pop star.

No matter what I do, I’ll never live up to Wilder. ”

This unexpected glimpse at Presley’s childhood wounds and insecurities tugged at my heart. I’d always seen him as an uber-confident alpha male, the master of his domain, pretty much perfect in every way.

All the while, he’d been going through life feeling second best, like no matter what he did, it would never be enough.

I wanted to climb over the counter and wrap myself around him, soothe the hurt little boy that still resided deep within him. But of course I didn’t.

“You’re incredibly accomplished in your own right,” I argued. “And not everyone’s more impressed with Wilder.”

“Right. Are you telling me you and all your friends weren’t swooning over him back in high school?” he asked with a bitter edge to his voice.

“Yes. That’s what I’m telling you. I barely noticed him.”

Because all I could see was you.

“I don’t think you see yourself very clearly,” I said. “You’ve played in the NFL for twelve years. You’re incredibly successful at it and famous. You’ve won how many Superbowls?”

“Seven.”

“And you’ve made more money than you could probably ever spend, based on what I’ve seen of your lifestyle,” I said. “I’m sure you could afford to buy your own island if you wanted to. If you do, I recommend building a house with more than one bedroom.”

His gaze snapped up to mine.

I shouldn’t have said it. Now we were both thinking about our close encounter this morning.

“Sorry about, uh… crowding you this morning in the bed,” Pres said. “I’m used to having a king-sized mattress to myself. I guess I tend to use the whole thing without being aware of it.”