“I know what you’re implying,” I fire back at her. “I meant what I said last night. Not until I know I can’t hurt you.”
“Fine,” she scoffs. “But you can’t blame a girl for trying.” Lila sits up, letting my fingers fall away from her neck. “Since you’renot going to break out of your chastity belt, we should get going if we want to beat the breakfast crowd. Just give me five minutes to get dressed.”
She grabs her duffel with her good hand and disappears into the bathroom, leaving me alone with Max and my racing thoughts. The golden retriever looks up at me with what feels like quiet, knowing amusement.
“Don't start,” I mutter to him.
Max's tail thumps against the carpet as if to say he's not judging, just observing with great interest.
True to her word, Lila emerges from the bathroom five minutes later already losing a battle with her flannel shirt.
“This feels like a design flaw,” she mutters, trying unsuccessfully to maneuver the sleeve around her sling one-handed.
The oversized flannel is twisted crooked across her body, one side hanging open while the other bunches awkwardly behind her back. In the process of wrestling with it, the loose tank top underneath has slipped low on one side, exposing the smooth curve of her breast beneath the open fabric.
I stop breathing for a second.
Lila looks up just in time to catch me staring. Slowly, very slowly, a grin spreads across her face. “Well,” she says. “That got your attention.”
I drag my gaze upward with visible effort. “You appear to be stuck.”
“Mhm.” She makes absolutely no move to fix the situation. “And you appear to be having a crisis. Ready to change your mind yet?”
The open side of the flannel slips farther as she moves. My jaw tightens.
“Lila.”
“What?” she asks innocently. Completely fake innocence. “I’m injured. I require assistance. Come help me, Professor.”
My hands work slowly, deliberately, freeing the twisted sleeve while trying very hard not to think about how close she is or how good she smells or the fact that one slight movement would press her body flush against mine.
“There,” I murmur once the flannel finally falls properly into place.
But neither of us steps away.
Lila looks up at me through dark lashes, mouth curved at the corners.
“You know,” she says softly, “you’re surprisingly good at handling delicate situations.”
I laugh quietly under my breath. “I’m trying not to aggravate your injury.”
“Mhm.” Her eyes flick knowingly down my face. “Pretty sure that’s not the only thing you’re trying not to aggravate.” Lila bites back a smile.
Then Max lets out a dramatic whining huff from beside the bed, tail thumping impatiently against the floor.
Lila glances down at him and sighs theatrically. “Fine. You’re right. We should probably leave this motel room before Professor Self-Control finally snaps from seeing a little side boob.”
I open my mouth to argue. Then close it again because, unfortunately, she’s probably right. A few more minutes in this motel room, I’ll combust.
By the time we finally make it out the door, Lila is smiling to herself like she’s won something, and honestly, she probably has. Max trots between us as we make our way to the truck.
“I'll drive,” I say, opening the passenger door for Lila before she can argue.
“You say that like I have a choice,” she mutters, but climbs in without protest.
We climb inside, and within a few minutes, the diner appears on our right just as promised, a squat building with a blinking “OPEN” sign and a half-full parking lot. I pull in, parking in a spot that gives Lila the shortest path to the door. The morning sun glints off the chrome trim of the building, giving it that quintessential American diner glow. I've always had a strange appreciation for these places—unpretentious establishments where coffee never stops flowing and breakfast is served all day.
I get Max out of the backseat when Lila says my name, and points to the door of the diner. A hand-lettered sign on the door reads No Pets (Service Animals Excepted). I pause, glancing down at him.
