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Before we start up the circle drive, she says, “I’m going to go take a shower. Would you mind giving me a little bit?”
Her arms fold neatly across the center of my shirt she’s still wearing. It hangs down to the middle of her thighs, plastering against them with the wind, and even though I’ve seen her in a bikini, the sight of her partially covered thighs is almost more tempting.
She was right—Idolike seeing her in my clothes.
I shift, searching for the right thing to say. “I can get my own room if it makes you more comfortable.”
“No, it’s not that. I think I just need a minute.”
It’s that she won’t even look at me that has my stomach twisting. I don’t want to mess this up. If I only have eleven more days with her, then I’m going to make them count.
Starting with fixing this mess.
Breaking through the lobby doors, I struggle to keep up with her.
“I have no idea how Shaylea knew where you were staying,” I begin.
A touch of annoyance slides between her words. “Just drop it, Damon.”
“Do I look like a liar?”
Stopping before the elevators, she unwinds her arms and turns on me. “I don’t know what you look like to me because—” She takes a deep breath, then continues. “This is exactly what I didn’t want from this vacation. Men just do what men do and complicate things.”
“That’s not fair,” I say. “You can’t group us all together.”
She notes the involuntary direction of my gaze when it finds her lips.
“Every shark can bite, Damon. The tricky part is knowing which one will.”
I relax my stance but don’t dare to touch her again. “If you’re always assuming the worst in someone, how will you ever find the good?”
We study each other a moment longer.
“Why were you staying in that motel?” The question leaves my lips before I can think better of it.
Her face shutters. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
A foreign desire to protect her consumes me. “If you’re going to be staying with me, I need to know whether or not you’re in danger.”
Not appreciating my tone, she faces forward.
“I’m a little strapped for money, alright? I’m not in any sort of trouble.”
Her response lacks the conviction of a whole truth, but I’ll take it.
“Shaylea won’t speak to you like that in front of me again.”
I hear the edge in my promise and hope that she believes me.
“I appreciate that.” She clicks the button to call the elevator. “From now on, I think it’s best to keep things between us strictly professional.”
Against what every testosterone-fueled cell in my body demands, I agree that getting tangled up in this infatuation with her is only going to cause more trouble.
“Neither of us wants an attachment, right?” she fishes, raising a brow.
“Right.”
Even if I entertained the idea of liking Kate, what could I offer her? I’m a chronic workaholic with no social life who lives alone in LA.
