“Nothing. You did nothing to piss me off.”
“And yet—”
“No. You did nothing. That’s what’s pissed me off.” When he still looks confused, I want to scream in frustration. “Okay, let me spell it out for you. This place is very romantic. You are a very good fake boyfriend.”
“And that’s a problem?”
“Yes, I mean, look at this place.” I gesture to the enormous bed. “A single king sized bed. One bed. Trust me when I tell you that in every romcom, basically ever, if the couple is pretending to be in a fake relationship, they have to share a room and there’s only one bed. And there are shenanigans.”
“Shenanigans?”
“Yes. Shenanigans. Canoodling, at the very least. But no. Not with you. Because you’re a big, tough Navy SEAL and you can sleep anywhere. So of course you didn’t need to sleep in the bed. There was no accidental snuggling in the night. No morning canoodling. Zero shenanigans!”
His lips are twitching now. “Let me see if I’ve got this right. You’re pissed off because I didn’t take advantage of you?”
“Well, when you say it like that, it sounds stupid.”
“Okay, so you want to say it some other way? Some way that will make me understand what I need to do to fix this?”
His expression is patient and… kind, for God’s sake. Like he’s just genuinely trying to do the right thing. Which he probably is.
After all, Nick is a good guy. I know this.
He has the heart of a boy scout, wrapped in the body of a Marvel superhero.
“I’m sorry. This isn’t your fault, and you don’t have to fix this.” I put air quotes aroundfix this. “This is all on me. It’s just that yesterday, when we were around my colleagues all day, you did such a good job pretending that you couldn’t keep your hands off me, I—”
I cut myself off, because, for the love of Captain America’s ass, this is embarrassing to admit out loud and I’m kind of wishing I’d explored the surviving-on-hibiscus-blossoms plan more thought.
“You what?”
Okay, Cassie. Just blurt it out. Rip the Band-Aid off.
“I liked being your fake girlfriend a little too much, and I guess I expect you to make a move. And then, we got to the room—this amazingromanticroom you finagled for us—and I thought, whoa! King sized bed. He’s definitely going to play that angle. But then there was no angle.”
When I finally work up the courage to look him in the eyes, he’s grinning. This big shit-eating grin. Like a kid on Christmas morning with an entire roomful of presents.
“You know,” I jab a finger in his direction, “This actually is your fault. This wouldn’t be happening if you hadn’t been such a good fake boyfriend and hadn’t made me feel all the—” I make a vague gesture toward my tummy, where all those butterflies are still flapping away.
“Made you feel all what?” He takes a step closer, his gaze no longer amused, but dark and serious.
“Are you really going to make me say this out loud?”
“Yeah, I am.” He takes another step closer. “You’re my best friend’s kid sister. You’re my friend, as well. And I respect you both too much to make a move unless I know it’s exactly what you want. So, yeah. I need to hear you say it out loud. I want to hear exactly what I made you feel.”
My breath catches, because—dear Lord—there is so much arrogance in the way he says that. So much pride. Like just by saying those words, he’s taken responsibly for all the moisture pooling between my legs right now.
Because, yeah, when he looks at me like that, when he says things like that, it makes me soaked. He makes me soaked.
He’s completely closed the distance between us, yet he’s still not actually touching me. And I’m still just wearing a towel.
The next words he says are practically growled, his voice has dropped so low. “I want to hear exactly what you want me to do to you.”
