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11

Holland

“ W hat the hell was that for?” Bridger wheezes, clutching his abdomen. He might be all hard, chiseled muscle, but I aimed well. One of Mom’s exes was an amateur boxer, and he taught me how to throw a proper punch. It’s come in handy more times than I care to admit.

“For telling our friends that we’re together,” I snap, crossing my arms over my chest and glaring.

“Did you have a better explanation as to why you were stepping foot inside this house with me?” His voice is still breathless, but there’s that damn smirk again. The one that makes me want to simultaneously punch him and?—

No.

Just punch him.

“If you’d given me a moment, I’m sure I could have pulled something out of my ass!” I huff. “And what the hell was with all the nuzzling and sweet cheeks shit down there?”

“I thought it added authenticity to the story. You know, really sold it.”

With narrowed eyes, I jab a finger toward him. “We don’t have a story. Now everyone’s going to think we’re having sex.”

“Hate to break it to you, muffin, but most people who are dating do that sort of thing.”

“Except we’re not actually dating. And we’re certainly never going to do that again.”

He straightens as challenge sparks in his eyes. Not only is it sharp, it’s dangerous enough to make my stomach flip. “You sure about that?”

I tighten my arms around myself, as if they’re some kind of shield against the way his words crawl under my skin. “Positive.”

His gaze drills into me as the corners of his lips curl in a way that makes my pulse stutter. The tension is only broken when he shrugs, moving toward his dresser. “Suit yourself, sweet cheeks .”

“Stop calling me that!”

Ignoring me, he pulls off his shirt.

My gaze drops before I can stop it, taking in the hard planes of his chest and the subtle dusting of hair that leads down?—

Nope.

I’m definitely not looking there.

My cheeks heat as I whip around and rummage through my duffel bag, racking my brain for a way out of this mess.

Nothing comes to mind.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” I demand without turning around.

He chuckles. The sound is low and infuriating. “Getting ready for bed. What’s wrong? It’s not like you haven’t seen it all before.”

I mutter under my breath, yanking out a tank top and shorts. With my back turned to him, I strip off my shirt and bra, trying not to think about the fact that he’s just a few feet away. The thin black tank slides over my head, hugging my curves as I pull down my leggings. The heat of his gaze feels more like a physical caress.

Hoping that it’s just my imagination, I glance over my shoulder and then scowl when I catch him watching me. “Do you mind?”

He flashes a grin. One that’s full of mischief and meant to irritate. He knows all my buttons to push. “Not at all. Please, continue. It was just getting interesting.”

“Turn around, Sanderson,” I snap.

He raises a brow, clearly enjoying himself. “For someone who strips in front of an audience, you’re surprisingly shy.”

“That’s a job that pays the bills,” I bite out with an icy glare that hopefully shrivels his balls.

He smothers the laughter brimming on his lips. “Relax, Tate. You can have a little bit of privacy while I use the bathroom.” He grabs something off the dresser before strolling out.

It’s not until the door clicks shut behind him that I realize I’ve been holding my breath. A shaky exhale leaves my body as I lean against the bed for a moment and try to calm my racing heart. Being around Bridger feels like standing too close to a fire. Warm, dangerous, and impossible to ignore.

I shake off that disturbing thought and quickly strip off my leggings and underwear. I’ve never been able to sleep in panties. They’re way too constricting. Guess that’s coming back to bite me in the ass.

I toss them into my bag and zip it up before running my fingers through my hair.

It’s almost crazy to believe how much my life has been turned upside down in one short hour.

When the door creaks open, I spin around. My breath catches when I see him wearing nothing but boxers. Somehow, he’s even more chiseled than two years ago. Every line of muscle, every sharp angle, looks like it was carved from stone. My mouth goes dry, and I force my gaze to the ceiling, pretending I didn’t just eye-fuck him.

“Ready for bed?” he asks, his voice rougher than usual. The gravelly tone of it sends an unwelcome shiver cascading down my spine before pooling like warmed honey in my core.

I nod stiffly, not trusting myself to speak, and climb into bed, tugging the blanket up to my chin. He follows, sliding in on the other side. The mattress dips beneath his weight. The space between us feels nonexistent, every movement amplified. I’m painfully aware of the heat radiating from his body and the soft rustle of fabric as he adjusts the pillow.

The silence that stretches is suffocating. I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to block out the fact that he’s lying right beside me and I can feel every shift of his body, every subtle intake of breath.

“You okay over there, Tate?” There’s a tightness to his voice that makes me wonder if he’s having second thoughts about forcing me into his bed.

“Couldn’t be better,” I bite out, not bothering to open my eyes. “This is exactly how I wanted to spend my night.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

With gritted teeth, I turn my back to him and stare at the wall. Already, I know it’s going to be a long-ass night. I can’t focus on anything but the sound of his steady breathing while mine feels erratic, like I’ve run a marathon.

As much as I want to hate him, as much as I tell myself that there’s nothing between us, I can’t shake the way my body reacts to him. The way he seems to draw me in no matter how hard I fight it.

The worst part is, I’m pretty sure he knows it.