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I lean my head back and close my eyes. “Consider it.”
It’s hard not to smile. I didn’t realize I had such an evil streak.
There’s another knock on the door—my cardiologist here to do a morning checkup. Whitney excuses herself and the second she’s gone, I perk up, reaching over for my breakfast tray.
I’m starving.
“Morning doctor.”
“Hey Cal. How’d you hold up over night?”
“Nothing to report. Hey listen, while I’ve got you here, is there any way you could make my prognosis sound worse than it is?”
He frowns, confused. “How so?”
“Oh, just maybe only having a few weeks to live. That sort of thing.”
Thirty years my junior, he still has the audacity to shoot me a reproachful glare.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that. The beta blocker we’ve got you on should do the trick. You’ll be back on your feet in no time.”
I sigh, deeply disappointed.
“Well damn. Don’t mention that to my grandson or Whitney if they stop you in the hall on your way out. Better they think I’m on my deathbed for now.”Chapter NineteenWhitneyThis morning, I woke up before Derek, tangled in his luxurious sheets, weighed down by his bronzed arm stretched across my body. He sleeps sans shirt, and the sight of his muscled shoulders and arms on full display distracted me long enough for my bladder to nearly burst.
After using the restroom as quietly as possible, I went to check on Cal and bring him breakfast, but now that I’m done, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do. Hang around? Make myself useful? Grab my clothes and flee? The last option sounds the best, but when I return to Derek’s room, he’s awake, in his bathroom, with the door shut. I can hear the whir of his electric toothbrush. I think fast, grabbing my phone out of my purse and stuffing myself inside Derek’s closet to place a phone call.
Carrie doesn’t answer at first. I get anxious.
“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.”
The call connects.
“Hello?” she asks, sounding half-asleep.
“Carrie, it’s me.”
“Babe, hang up,” a husky voice adds. “C’mon, it’s early.”
OH MY GOD.
“WHO WAS THAT?” I demand.
“Thomas,” she admits.
“CARRIE.”
“Jesus, stop shouting. He can hear you.”
“Tell Whitney you’ll call her back,” Thomas says, probably reaching for the phone to disconnect me.
“No! I need help! Carrie, tell Thomas to stop listening.”
“Thomas stop listening.”
“No,” he says simply.
I sigh. “Fine. Just…I need help.”
“Where are you?” she asks. “It sounds like you’re underground.”
“I’m hiding in Derek’s closet.”
Thomas groans.
Carrie actually laughs. “You’re what? Does he know you’re in there? In his house, I mean?”
What does she take me for?! A stalker!? Just because we trailed Fudge Guy to his car one time, now I’m some kind of crazy person?
“Yes! Of course he knows I’m here—in the house, that is. Not in his closet.”
The sink turns off in the bathroom. I’m running out of time!
I cup my hand over my mouth to quell my voice. “I slept over here last night, but I don’t know what to do. Stay? Act cute? Casual? As if I do this sort of thing all the time?”
“She’s overthinking it,” Thomas replies.
“Tell him to stop listening! This is a private conversation!”
Then, before either of them can answer, the closet door is pulled open and Derek is standing there, looking down at me—blinding me with sunlight and his sculpted physique.
“And don’t call me again!” I shout into the phone before hanging up. “Damn telemarketers.”
Derek tilts his head, an amused smile accenting his adorably sleepy features. “Do you always take phone calls in the closet?”
I hold up my phone. “Better reception. Something to do with all the walls, I think. Anyway, good morning. I was just going to get my clothes on and get out of your hair.”
I walk past him and into the bathroom to find my bra and panties. They glare up at me from the counter as if to say, We know what you did last night.
I berate them in my head before collecting my jeans and sweater.
Derek is standing at the door of the bathroom, leaning against the frame. Arms crossed. Cool as a cucumber. Even with bedhead, he’s so damn cute, I want to lick him. Kiss him. Hug him until our bodies stick together like hot glue and popsicle sticks.
I do none of those things.
“Well, aren’t you going to turn around?” I twirl my finger in a circle so he gets the idea.
His shoots me a glare that says, I’ve seen it all anyway, but then he obliges, turning his back to me.
Smooth tan muscles taper down to his waist where gray pajama pants sit low on his hips. I stare a beat too long before swapping his boxer shorts for my panties. Then I tug on my jeans. While his back is still turned, I fold his boxers neatly in half, then again, and again until they’re small enough to stuff into my pocket. Hopefully he won’t miss them. They’re mine now.
