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Max Cassiano has both hands under his head. His eyebrows are cocked, and I can’t interpret the expression on his face. Amusement? Anger? Annoyance?
“I was afraid you’d keep going.”
The way I gasp is enough to suck half the oxygen from the room.
“Qué—no. How? Why?”
He remains silent for a moment, just staring at me through narrowed eyes.
That’s annoyance, all right. Did I fondle him the whole night? I’ve been known to get a bit handsy when I’m drunk, but I’ve never woken up in bed with a semi-naked guy. Especially not someone whose muscles are a work of art. In this position, it’s clear how tiny his waist is. His biceps bulge as testimony to many a hard workout session. His hair is tousled with sleep, and there’s a layer of scruff on his face.
I can’t blame my sleepy self for wanting to cop a feel. But at the same time, if this situation were reversed, I would be well on my way to committing murder.
When I open my mouth to beg for forgiveness, he interrupts. “You got way too drunk at the party and fell in the tub. Bad idea, because your top got fully transparent. So, I put on my T-shirt on you.”
I look down at myself. Sure enough, I’m swimming in a damp, gray T-shirt. That explains why he’s showing off his goods.
Clearing my throat, I say, “Yeah, well. I couldn’t back down from the challenge.”
“Then,” Max continues, as though this is a conversation about the weather. “I had to carry you on my back all the way here?—”
“What?”
“Okay, we took an Uber. But I still had to do all the lifting.” He moves his head to get a better look up at me. “By the way, Tinker Bell, you’re a lot heavier than you look.”
“I’ll have you know it’s all muscle.”
“Yeah, I know. I could feel it.”
My eyes are wide. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“If that wasn’t enough,” he says, adding a snort for punctuation. “When I finally tried to put you to bed, you wouldn’t let me go.”
Oh, no. I squeeze the fabric of his T-shirt against my chest. Tension shrinks me like a raisin. In a careful but terrified whisper, I ask, “What did I do to you last night?”
Once, during a party in high school, I got so drunk that I grabbed my two friends and turned them into my very own pillows. No matter how hard they tried to go back out to have fun, I squeezed them against me until they gave up. It helped that they’re two skinny girls.
Cassiano is anything but small, and yet here he is, glaring at me.
“Let’s just say I couldn’t sleep a wink.”
“I will never live this down, will I?” Something that sounds like a mix between a whine and a groan escapes from me.
The corner of his lips quirks. “How did you read my mind?”
The door opens with no warning, and I die. For like a millisecond.
Dressed all in black, with combat boots, studded belt, and a lip piercing, is none other than my roommate.
My knee-jerk reaction is to kick Cassiano out of my bed. As if that would erase from her mind what she just saw and whatever conclusions that picture may lead her to.
There’s a groan from the floor, and I scoot to the edge of the bed. He’s so big he takes up all the space between the beds. The landing zone—his butt—is massaged by his hand, giving me ample view of the broad back I apparently clung to all night. I wish I remembered how it felt against me.
No! Qué estoy pensando?
I shake my head hard enough to give myself a headache.
“It’s not what you’re thinking!” I squeak out to my roommate.
