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I open the door and inhale sharply.
“Morning,” Mack says.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him in civvies. He’s wearing running shoes, a pair of black jeans, and an All Blacks rugby shirt—the modern sort with short sleeves that clings to the body and shows off all your muscles. Holy shit—I didn’t realize his tattoo was a full sleeve. It covers his arm from the wrist all the way up to under his top. His hair is damp at the temples so he’s had a shower, but he hasn’t shaved, and his cheeks and jaw bear a sexy coating of dark stubble.
Despite this, he looks bright and fresh, no doubt fully rested after five seconds of sleep. Unlike myself, who looks as if she’s spent all night walking up a mountain in a force ten gale.
His gaze slips down me, over my pale-pink pajamas, and then returns to my face before lifting to my hair for a moment. His eyes come back to mine, and although he doesn’t smile, something in his eyes suggests he finds it amusing.
“Don’t mock me,” I whisper, lifting a hand to try and tuck any stray strands back into the elastic attempting to restrain them. I quickly give up and lean against the door jamb tiredly. “I’ve been sick all night and I haven’t slept.”
He studies the front of my pajama top.Subtle, dude.But then he says, “Are you a Hendrix fan?”
I glance down at the picture of a rising sun topped by the line fromPurple Hazeabout kissing the sky. “I thought you were staring at my boobs.”
I look back up. This time, even though he’s still not smiling, there’s definitely amusement in his eyes.
“I love his music,” I blurt out. “I’ve got his quote on my wall, you know, ‘music is my religion’?” I stop and blush. He’s not here to talk about music.
He lets out a long sigh. “Have you eaten this morning?”
“God, no.”
“You need to eat. Go get dressed. I’m taking you out for breakfast.”
I stare at him. “What?”
“You have precisely ten minutes. If you’re not ready, I’ll carry you out in your pajamas.” His gaze is firm. I have no doubt he means what he says.
I’m conscious that my jaw has dropped, but I can’t get my brain to function. “Is this like a condemned prisoner’s last meal? Are you taking me to the police station afterwards?”
He gives me an exasperated glare. “Of course not. I didn’t give you a chance to explain last night, and I should have.” He checks his watch. “Nine minutes and forty-five seconds.”
My head spins. “Okay. Um… it’s a mess in here but you can come in if you want.”
He comes in, and I close the door behind him. He smells amazing—a lot better than I do, I’m sure. He walks over to an armchair and sits back, pulling out his phone, resting an ankle on the opposite knee. He’s so big—he seems to fill the room with both his physical presence and his personality.
Studying his phone, not looking up, he says, “Nine minutes, thirty seconds.”
“I’m going.” I run down to my room and close the door.
I have the fastest shower I’ve ever had, pull on jeans, a mint-green tee, and my Converses, then scrape as much of my hair as I can back off my face and secure it with a strong band. A few coils spring out, but it’s not too bad. There’s no time for elaborate makeup, so I flick some powder across my nose, brush some mascara on my lashes, and add a bit of lip gloss.
I come back out into the living room with thirty seconds to spare.
His eyebrows rise. “You’re ready.”
“Of course I’m ready. I wasn’t going to let you carry me out in my pajamas.”
“I would have.”
“I know.” I pick up my purse and follow him to the front door.
The Aston sits outside, glinting in the early morning sunshine. There’s no sign of Jamie at the wheel. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” I ask.
“Huxley has mobile breathalyzers at the club,” he says, waiting for me to lock the door and then walking with me to the car. “I’m fine now.”
“Seriously? I still feel weird.”
