Oh, my fuckery!Bad enough that I’m out here in the communal area, stuffing my face when I said I didn’t want dessert, but I’m also dressed for bed.Kind of.I’m not wearing pajamas like a sane person would—no super slinky or cute nightwear for me. Nope, I’m wearing a T-shirt and huge granny panties. “Novelty knickers,” so Yara had called them when we’d met up for a coffee earlier in the week.
They’re her contribution to my homeless status, apparently. She knows about Mitchell holding my clothes hostage and I told her, thanks to Lori, I’m holed up in some cheap B&B, the Londonequivalent of a roach motel. I didn’t want to drag her into this because I didn’t want her thinking I’d lost my mind.
Anyway, she gifted me seven pairs of underpants—one for each day of the week—saying they were bigger than she’d anticipated (an internet buy), and she laughed when she added, if all else failed, they’d be good to camp in. Literally, because they’re almost big enough to use as a tent. They might be perfect for sleeping in. Not so much for beingseen inby hot men you’ve slept with.
Hot men who’ve been out doing God knows what.Or God knows who?
Not that I’m letting that bother me. Nope. Just ask me. I’mfiiine! Nothing to see here but a girl trying to swallow down a mouthful of sugary goo while straining to work out what Oliver’s doing in the other room.
Please universe, direct that man away from here.
Lord, which panties did I pull out of the drawer? Was it a pair emblazoned with such witticisms as:
EVIE’S BIG GIRL PANTS
BOTTOM’S UP!
THESE ARE MY SMARTY PANTS
or was it worse?
“You should’ve ordered pudding.”
My heart skips a beat as Oliver appears in the doorway, his body backlit, his broad shoulders almost filling it.
Why does he have no shirt on?
And why do running shorts have to be so short?
At least I know what he’s been doing, rather than who.
And why would I order pudding?
I swallow thickly, the marshmallow goo having become glue in my mouth. “I’m not a fan,” I say, giving my head a tiny shake.
He frowns slightly, as though confused rather than unhappy.
“Pudding. The consistency doesn’t appeal to me. I know, it’s weird because I like all other sweet stuff. Cake and cookies and pastries.” My words fall faster as Oliver’s expression lightens.Was it the pair with the slogan on the front or across the booty? The pair that glows in the dark?“And obviously, I like candy,” I add, crinkling the marshmallow bag.
“Obviously.” His smile makes it seem as though he’s laughing at me.
“I thought you’d gone out. I heard the door close—not that I was checking or anything.”
“Why are you creeping about in the dark?” The shadow of his arm moves toward the wall, and my breathing suddenly sounds like an asthmatic at a strip joint.
“Don’t—”
Too late, the room floods with light.
“Ah. Now I see.”
“More than I anticipated,” I mutter, tugging at the hem of my T-shirt. I keep my gaze lowered before I realize it might not be the greatest plan, given he’s wearing running shorts barely bigger than my panties. “Stop staring, Oliver!”
“I’m Oliver again, am I?”
“I have other words,” I grumble, avoiding his gaze.
“I’m sure the last time I saw knickers that size, it was in the V & A Museum.”
