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CHAPTER ELEVEN

Becca

After dinner, the guys fill one golf cart with Dawes and Christina’s luggage, while John loads his belongings onto another cart and brings them to my bungalow. My brother follows on a separate golf cart as they all pull up to the front.

Corbin, the ever helpful and watchful brother, helps John carry the suitcases across the stone path and inside the villa. As they pass me, I say, “This bed is mine. That one will be yours.”

John cracks jokes about “rooming with the enemy,” while Corbin not-so-subtly appraises every item John removes.

I roll my eyes then awkwardly stand by Oakley, fluffing my bed pillows as my pulse races with the excitement of the unknown. John grins easily, tossing a wink my way when Corbin isn’t looking, like this is all part of some private game between us.

Meanwhile, Corbin can’t resist shooting me a questioning look behind John’s back, as if to say, Are you sure about this? I shake my head, silently telling him it’s fine. When John walks outside to the cart, I say, “I’m a big girl. Don’t worry.”

“Sorry, I can’t help it,” Corbin says, his lips not moving like a ventriloquist.

“I know but trust me. I can handle Basilio.” I use Basilio because it doesn’t equate with attraction, but friendship like he’s just one of many of my brother’s friends.

“Okay, if you need anything, I’m a phone call away.” He leads Oakley out, but she trails slightly behind him, turns, and gives me a thumbs up. I smile but shake my head and wave her off.

I stand just inside the bedroom when John comes back inside with his golf bag. He leans against the wall, letting his gaze linger a bit too long. The room feels supercharged, a storm of something brewing.

It’s impossible not to consider if sharing a bedroom with John will be stimulating or awkward. Or, if I let myself admit that I’ve been secretly hoping something would force us together, all along.

“Where do you want me to put these?” He gestures to the clubs.

“How about the corner by your bed? Or there’s room in the closet.”

He slings the golf bag over his shoulder and walks around the bed, setting them down by his nightstand.

Then he rummages through his duffel bag perched on the bed.

While he’s in the middle of boasting about his “packing expertise” and how he watched a video, a shiny foil packet spills from a rolled shirt and lands on the floor.

For a split second, neither of us can tear our eyes away from the square, deciding if it’s an indictment or an invitation.

Our eyes gradually lift, and our gazes meet. With a self-assured smile and the tip of his lips, he stands confident. “I was taught to always come prepared.”

I lift an eyebrow and smirk. “It’s nice to see someone keeping their local drugstore in business.”

“Sunshine, I’m just optimistic.”

“I’m surprised you and Stella still use condoms after dating for years.” Rolling my eyes, I take a jab at the sexy man in front of me.

He slides in front of me, bends down, and picks up the gold package from the floor. While he flips it back and forth between his fingers, I notice two letters “XL.” I swallow hard, and he holds in a laugh, pressing his lips together in a mischievous grin.

“Let’s play a game. Is it the truth or a lie?”

I blurt out, “Lie.”

“Why don’t you roll it on me and see for yourself?” His voice is smoother than the best bourbon on a fall day.

I choke. Literally choke, and he can’t resist a deep belly laugh. Classic John. He never misses a chance to tease me. But what if he isn’t teasing? God, I’m so out of practice.

Spinning on my bare feet, I go into the bathroom and get ready for bed. It’ll be impossible to sleep with him in the bed next to me. What if he farts? What if he snores? What if he invites me to his bed?

I pad back to the bedroom, and he’s pulling back the blankets from the bed, wearing thin gray, knit shorts. My mouth waters. It’s no different than his swim trunks yet it is. He’s in my room, not on the beach.

“Your PJs are cute,” he says as he slides under the covers.

“Yours are too.”

He snorts and tries to stop himself. “Bex, I’m just a man sleeping in your room. Don’t get flustered.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. Gray shorts aren’t… cute.”

“On you they are.” Boom.

The muscles in his arm ripple as he reaches to turn off the light.

“Night, Sunshine.”

“Night, Egomaniac.”

As I lie in the darkness, I hear John’s steady breathing on the bed across from me, a soft reminder that he’s actually here.

My thoughts spin like a tilt-a-whirl. I keep reminding myself that he’s the type of guy I’ve always kept at bay.

Well, there were a few times in college that I gave in to John.

Back then, I didn’t trust him or any athlete.

I felt too much so I limited it to making out in secret.

But we’ve grown up. Grown apart. Grown back together. And here we are.

Now I understand that he’s more than an athlete—he’s someone who listened, consoled, and cared about the devastation I went through over the past six months.

Every time his focus stalls on me or laughs at his own teasing, my resolve slips.

My priority should be to keep my guard up.

We would never work living in two different states.

Being so close to him for another week will test me.

I wonder if he’s pretending to be asleep and if his thoughts are similar to mine. The heat can wear you out and add the drinks, the big dinner, it’s possible he drifted to sleep as soon as his lids closed. I whisper, “John. John.”

No answer. He must be fast asleep, so I slip on my satin cooling mask and tuck my fist under my chin and try to dream of anything but the extra-large condom.