Page 47 of The Golden Hour

“I hate that nickname, by the way.”

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that. The shower scene playing out in my head is pretty loud.”

I make a noise of disgust, but I’m feeling the opposite. My stomach drops, triggering pulsing need between my legs. No matter how hard I try, my body won’t forget his.

“You’re remembering that night,” he murmurs. “Your breathing just picked up.”

I yank the phone away from my mouth, but it’s too late. He chuckles knowingly.

“I’ve tried to forget, too, but you left me a souvenir that’s made it impossible.”

My missing panties.

Mortified, I sink to the closed toilet seat and drop my head forward. My voice is shaky. “That’s creepy and gross. Why didn’t you throw them away?”

“I’m probably going to regret this in the morning, just like I regret most of what I say to you…” He sighs, and I imagine the warmth of his breath on my neck. “I kept them because I wanted a reminder.”

My heart in my throat, I whisper, “Of the mistake you made?”

“No, princess.” The gravelly words make my thighs clench. “Of the best almost-sex of my life, and how badly I want to do it again.”

Like your average mature, level-headed woman, I gasp and hang up.

25

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Miss?”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“I’m so sorry to wake you, but there’s someone here demanding to see you.”

I blink groggily at my bedroom door—the direction Selina’s voice is coming from. “What? Who?”

“Mr. Reid.”

The name might as well be a bucket of cold water. Jerking upright, I swing my feet to the floor and pad to the door. Unlocking it, I squint at Selina. From her fresh face and the light behind the curtains at my back, it’s morning. But it feels like I just went to bed.

“What time is it?” I croak.

She checks her watch. “Just after nine o’clock.”

I groan. “What is he doing here? Did he say?”

She shakes her head. “Would you like me to call security? I would have already, but Lizzie told me you had a successful date last night, and I didn’t want to—”

“No, no, it’s okay. Thank you, Selina. You did the right thing. Tell him I’ll be right down. But you can leave him outside.”

Her eyes twinkle as she nods. “Very well.”

When she’s gone, I open the closet and grab the first thing I see—a deep blue maxi dress and flip-flops—and hustle into the bathroom to brush my teeth, slap on some lip gloss, and throw my hair into a bun, all the while castigating myself for caring what I look like. For caring what he thinks, or sees, or wants. For still feeling the aftershocks from not only what he said last night, but from the intense orgasm I had later in bed courtesy of my own hand.

My breath sits high and short in my chest as I make my way to the front door, and my face feels like plastic about to crack. Thankfully, no one’s around to notice my mostly mental walk of shame.

Who shows up the morning after a date like this? Let alone a fake one. What the hell is he playing at?

By the time I open the door, I’m as irritated as I am nervous. I don’t wait for him to turn around before whisper-hissing, “What the hell, Finn?”

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