Instead, I set the wine aside and shut off the TV. After I brushed my teeth, I crept to the bed and pulled down the coverlet. I doused the light and placed my glasses next to my cell on the nightstand.
The sound of Brooks’ quiet, easy breathing lulled me to sleep.
I was warm, and everything smelled like trees.
Did I go camping?
My lips curved into a smile as I sank deeper into the warmth at my side. I reached my hand out and it landed on something hard—something contoured. I felt around for a moment, my brain slowly coming to.
My eyes cracked open?—
I was in bed with Brooks.
Who was awake.
And I was in the middle of a grope session.
“Morning,” he said quietly, his golden eyes staring at me.
I let out a garbled noise and hastily jerked my hand off him. Horror widened my eyes and terror made my heart kick against my rib cage. “OhGod.I’m so sorry! I didn’t expect—well, you—I don’t sleep with?—”
I scrambled back, got tangled in the sheet, and hit the wooden floor in a heap of covers. A stream of creative blasphemies exploded from my lips.
“Are you okay?” Brooks asked, concern permeating his gravelly morning voice.
I let out a groan that was more embarrassment than pain. “Peachy.” When he was silent for a few moments, I asked, “Are you still here?”
“Yes.” Mirth saturated his tone.
“Don’t laugh at me!”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Come out from under the blanket before you suffocate.”
I gingerly poked my head out of my shroud and peeredup. Brooks had moved to my side of the bed and was staring down at me.
He was close enough that even without my glasses, I could easily see the lines at the corners of his eyes crease in amusement as he smiled.
Brooks touched the bridge of my nose. “Freckles.”
His rough-skinned finger on my face made my insides gooey.
I extracted myself from the coverlet and scrabbled up from the floor. I snatched my glasses from the nightstand and looked anywhere but at him. My heart rate wouldn’t settle. Desire pulsed low in my belly.
“Why didn’t you wake me and make me go back to my room?” He sat up and ran a hand through his bed-head hair.
“I don’t know,” I lied. “You just looked really comfortable.”
And hot.Really freaking hot.
“What time is it?” I asked.
“A little after seven,” he said.
“Oh.” I frowned. “Aren’t you late for work?”
“Day off.”
“Lucky you.”
