“It looks like you’re lugging a giant-ass bed up the stairs,” I return, holding in a laugh.
Walker’s voice is strained with exertion. “There’s your answer.”
“But why?”
Santiago wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead on his sleeve. “What do you think? What beds are used for.”
They finally reach the top step and stop to readjust their positions.
“Fucking?” Santiago snorts at my sass, but when Walker’s and Levi’s cheeks turn scarlet, I smile to myself and decide to push it further. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m kind of beat. I only have one pair of clothes now. I don’t even have a goddamn toothbrush. I’m not exactly in the mood to scratch anyone’s itch tonight.”
Three pairs of flabbergasted eyes stare at me.
Worth it.
If I’m being forced to sleep on a communal bed, I’m raising hell.
“Good God, woman.” Walker lets his end of the bed thump against the hardwood with enough force to rattle the picture frames on the wall.
Santiago groans from the added weight. “Really?”
Walker deadpans, “I needed my hands free.”
Levi follows Walker’s example. “It’s for sleeping.”
My mouth gapes. “For who? An entire NFL team?”
Santiago releases his grip and whirls around to give me a look. “It’s for us. Obviously.”
My fists rest on my hips. “Us? Who is ‘us’? You got a mouse in your pocket or something? I don’t remember agreeing to this. I was planning on taking the couch, you know, seeing as how I was forced to be here against my will.”
“Baby Girl, cut the shit.” Walker strides past the mattress. He doesn’t stop until we’re toe to toe. He’s close enough that I haveto tip my chin up to see his face. Close enough that I catch the clean scent of soap, sending a zing of need through my bones.
Damn him.
“You know damn well that Mason wouldn’t have let you rent another room after Bear tore up the doorframe in the bathroom. We both know that Silver Pines is too expensive for even God himself. So unless your plan was to sleep on a park bench, you don’t exactly have any other option. Now quit your whining and sleep on the damn bed.” Walker gestures to the mattress.
My nostrils flare.
I hate it when he’s right.
Mostly because it happens more often than I’d like to admit.
Instead of responding to Walker, I lean to the side and inform, “Santi, I’m stealing your clothes.”
Santiago waves his hand as if my statement is no big deal. “Take all the clothes you want.”
Spinning on my heel, I stomp back into Santiago’s bedroom. I lock myself in the closet and wait for the heat to leave my face.
I’m not embarrassed.
But my dignity deserves a little privacy.
The closet smells faintly of Santiago—oakmoss and leather. Most women would probably be thrilled to rifle through his clothes, but I’m annoyed.
One of his shirts probably costs more than my entire wardrobe.
I’ve done well for myself in New York, but notthiswell.
