Page 94 of The Publicity Stunt

“Ssshh, I’m going through my itinerary. Got lots to plan before tomorrow morning.”

“I’m going to count to three,” he says. “And if you don’t get up and climb onto the bed by three, I’m going to pick you up myself.”

No response.

He walks toward me and leans down, placing his hands on the backrest. He’s close enough for me to smell the citrusy body wash.

“I will pick you up, April. No jokes.”

I put my iPad on my stomach and tilt my chin up. “I’m really comfortable now. Don’t make me get up.”

“Got it,” he says and slides his hands underneath my legs, scooping me into his arms. The blanket’s all tangled between us and the iPad is barely balancing on the curve of my stomach.

I squeal. “What is wrong with you? Put me down!”

“You. Bed. Now.” Just as he’s about to throw me down, I unhook my arms from his neck to grip my iPad and he ends up tumbling onto the bed … right on top of me.

He looks at me, I look at him, and both of us burst out laughing. There’s a slight buzz in the air, a heaviness, and to be honest, I’m a little turned on right now. It doesn’t help that all I’m wearing is an oversized Rolling Stones T-shirt and a pair of pink shorts that end right below my ass.

“That was very unnecessary.” A tired laugh fizzles through me.

He hasn’t moved yet. My hands are on his bare shoulders. Even though they don’t need to be.

“You are very predictable,” he says. “And not very sneaky.” His hands are wrapped around the small of my back. Even though they don’t need to be.

His laugh hums through me, leaving a trail of goosebumps down my spine. “I guess not.” My voice is low and I brush my foot against the outline of his calf. “You got what you wanted. I’m on the bed now.”

“You’d better stay there.” His tone is low and warning, a voice that makes my entire chest flop over for some reason.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” I smile, but his response isn’t lighthearted and fun.

“Then don’t make me fight you, Chere. Because I will.” He smooths his hands down the curve of my back and the perverted bitch in my head goes,Please fight me. Preferably without clothes.

“Fine,” I say, and tilt my head up to look at the bathroom door behind me. “Is that the shower?” I look back at Parker and his gaze is locked onto a vague spot on my neck, right next to the outline of my T-shirt and the tiny crescent-shaped birthmark on my collarbone. When his hand lowers, briefly touching my thigh, the heat of a thousand shooting stars gathers under my belly. My adrenaline spikes.

His eyes stay down, avoiding my gaze. “I need to back off, right?” His voice is heavy and it almost sounds like a half-hearted plea. A question.

The room has started to pulse. My throat feels full. And before I do something I regret, I spring upright, taking my hands off his shoulders, crossing my legs.

He pulls his hands back and stands up too, rolling his palms into tiny fists next to his thigh. Two bright spots of color burn on his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he says, dropping his head, clutching the back of his neck. “I should probably—”

“It’s not going to happen again,” I blurt.

His eyebrow ticks. “It?”

“The night on the rooftop,” I clarify. “We’re … that’s not going to happen again.”

His hazel eyes search mine. It’s how he used to look at me when we were together. Back in college. Like our gaze was meant for each other and no one else. Something in my chest cracks at the memory. “Is that why you think I asked you to stay with me?” he asks.

A little? Maybe? Shit.

“It is, isn’t it?” He answers his own question. A few seconds pass and Parker takes my silence as a yes. Scoffing, he walks over to the bathroom, occasionally glancing over his shoulder. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

He sounds irritated.

“Okay,” I mumble, fumbling with the bedspread, trying to free the thick blanket from the tucked-in edges. He steps inside the bathroom and shuts the door behind him.