Page 46 of Heart Breaker

“I wasn’t telling you what to do,” he says. “I was just hoping we could talk.”

“I’m leaving.”

“Mm. You sure you’re coordinated enough for that?”

Ugh.

Ignoring him, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and immediately regret every life choice I’ve ever made. My head pounds so hard I actually wince. The mattress shifts behind me as Wes stands. I tell myself to avoid looking directly at him, but that lasts all of two seconds because unfortunately, I have eyes…and Wes Winters in black boxer briefs should probably be illegal.

My gaze catches first on his chest, all hard muscle and bronzed skin, then lower to the sharp V of muscle disappearing beneath the waistband of his boxers alongside a dark trail of hair that absolutely does not help my current emotional state. Neither does the very obvious bulge pressing against the black fabric. My face instantly catches fire, and I jerk my eyes away so fast I nearly give myself whiplash. Nope, absolutely not. I am not looking at that before coffee. I need to be able to think straight.

“You okay there, Peach?” His voice is way too amused.

Peach?

“I hate you,” I mumble.

“That seems harsh, especially considering that I gave you my shirt and prevented you from climbing into my bed in nothing but your underwear.”

My head snaps toward him. “What?”

He rounds the corner of the bed, making it look annoyingly easy, and stretches one arm over his head. Fuck my life, every muscle in his stomach shifts underneath his skin in a way that has my panties instantly damp. “You started to take off your clothes,” he explains casually. “I stopped you before things got out of hand, gave you one of my T-shirts, and turned around while you changed.”

“I did not take off my clothes in front of you.”

Wes smirks. “You absolutely did.”

Mortification burns through me.

“I stopped you before you took off your shirt,” he continues, far too calm about this entire situation. “You were very argumentative about it, by the way.”

“That sounds nothing like me.”

His mouth twitches. “You called me a ‘Bossy Pilot Ken Doll.’”

I cover my eyes. “I’m moving out.”

A quiet laugh escapes him as he steps around the side of the bed, accidentally blocking my path toward the door with approximately six feet two inches of extremely hard male body. Being this close to him makes everything worse. The soap-and-cedar smell of him, his messy dark hair, the sleepy gravel in his voice. My pulse starts thudding all over again.

“What happened last night?” I ask quickly, because I need answers immediately before my brain self-destructs.

Wes’s expression shifts slightly. “Nothing happened.”

I stare at him suspiciously. “Nothing?”

“You drank too much wine.” He crosses his arms loosely over his chest. “We both did. You fell asleep on my shoulder in the kitchen while lecturing me about the price of flying.”

I nod. “That does sound like me.”

“Mm.”

“And we didn’t…” I trail off awkwardly, gesturing vaguely between us.

His gaze flicks over my face for one brief second before returning to my eyes. “No, Lottie,” he says quietly. “We didn’t have sex.”

The relief that crashes through me is immediate and so intense my knees almost give out. “Oh, thank God.”

I drop heavily back onto the edge of the bed, burying my face in my hands while my pounding head threatens to split open completely. “This is the worst hangover of my life,” I groan into my palms.