“I can’t believe I fell for that,” I mumbled in disbelief.
“I mean, it wouldn’t have killed you to argue with me,” Brady said, his warm shoulder nudging mine. “I thought that was your favorite pastime anyhow.”
Part of me worried I had a new favorite pastime, and it involved this bed and the man in it. Which was unfortunate because this was a one-time thing. I needed to get up and find wherever he’d flung my pants.
“And, you know, I would take a compliment,” he added. “If you had one lying around.”
Reaching blindly with my opposite hand, I gripped a pillow from his headboard and brought it around, whacking him in the face.
Brady laughed and tossed the pillow aside, wrapping me in his arms and hauling me on top of him once more. I stretched out, sliding a thigh between both of his and propping my head up on his chest. He was all warm skin and loose limbs, completely at ease, naked in bed with me.
It should have felt weird, considering how we’d spent the majority of our relationship over the years. But it wasn’t, and that had a little kernel of concern twisting in the back of my mind.
Something must have registered on my face because Brady gripped me tighter. “Stay. I can probably improve upon perfection if you give me an hour or so.”
I cleared the roughness from my throat. “Perfection, huh?”
He pinched my backside, making me laugh. “You know it was good, Mac. Fucking fantastic even. You’ll be thinking about me all day tomorrow.”
I felt like I’d swallowed a ping-pong ball, aware that he was probably right for more than one reason. I could detect that delicious soreness already, the stretch and awareness that only came from really good sex. I knew I’d feel him tomorrow. I’d probably be sexy sore for a couple of days. It had been a little while for me in the bedroom department, and Brady was definitely above average in size. And he knew what he was doing.
That knowledge made the uneasiness spread.
This was supposed to be the end of whatever this was so I could get out from under the weird attraction and move on with my life. I should not be thinking abouttomorrowin any capacity where Brady Judd was concerned. Maybe I just needed to clean up and sleep on it. Take a shower and wash away the scent of him on my skin, his fingerprints on every inch of my body.
Brady turned so I was back on the mattress. Then he threw an arm across my middle and nuzzled his nose into my tangled hair.
I willed my breathing to slow as I stared up at the ceiling. This wasn’t part of the plan. Cuddling andtomorrowand the rising tide of panic radiating throughout my limbs. Sex was supposed to be the answer. It was supposed to get it out of my system, not make me want more.
I needed to get out of here. Clearly, my initial instinct to avoid Brady had been the right one. I’d let my hormones and my body take the reins, and look where it had gotten me. Snuggled up to a dirty-talking golden boy.
It didn’t take long. Soon, Brady’s deep, even breathing warmed the side of my neck. I counted to three hundred in my head and then carefully slid out from beneath his arm.
Standing by the bedside for a moment, I took in Brady’s ridiculously long body stretched diagonally across his king-size bed, sleeping soundly. Pressure behind my rib cage made me take a sudden step back, unwilling to consider the reason for it.
Then I grabbed the opposite corner of the duvet and draped it across him before I lost my nerve.
I looked around until I found my underwear. Next, I crept down the hallway, collecting articles of clothing as I went. When I was dressed and there was nothing left to do but retreat, I took one last look around the apartment, the comfortable, ultra-tidy place Brady called home.
Finally, I quietly shut the door, feeling like a coward and a liar all the same.
Brady
I knew she was gone before I even opened my eyes.
Rolling over beneath the edge of my comforter, I squinted at the clock on the bedside table. It was 2:48 a.m., and it seemed my brain wasn’t going to let me drift back to sleep tonight. It was awake and replaying the evening with Mac and how all the possible scenarios where she snuck out ended in disaster.
With a sigh, I got up and threw on some basketball shorts and a tee shirt. I’d shower in the morning. I wasn’t ready to scrub away what had happened. I wanted to hold on to the memory for a bit—it might be the only one I got.
Walking into the kitchen, I figured I could bake something to bring into work tomorrow. Cinnamon rolls seemed like a good option. They were high maintenance and needed time, and, well, I had plenty of that.
So I wiped down the counter while my mind recounted the way Mac had propped her feet on my shoulders and screamed her release. Then I mixed the dough and wondered where we went from here. Was she going to avoid me? Did she truly get me out of her system the way she’d wanted? Surely she felt it, how good we were together, how important this was, how right.
Mind wandering through the minefield of worst-case scenarios, I left the dough to rise and made myself some coffee. My eyes drifted to the empty spot on the refrigerator. Thank God I’d remembered to take down the mug shot. Now, though, I walked over to the drawer that held my dish towels and opened it, revealing the folded piece of paper. Smoothing it out, I popped it back onto the fridge, holding it in place with a magnet.
With my attention on my phone, I took a sip of coffee and pulled up the Chatter app. Nothing new from Mac and the Grandpappy’s account. Not that I’d expected there to be.
I scrolled for a while, distracting myself, before tapping the icon to create a new post in Chatter.
