Page 76 of Christmas in Coconut Creek

“Fuck!” I slammed the cabinet closed.

Mateo shook his head. “I told you. Now you just wasted time.” He checked his watch again. “You can still make it to Ron’s.”

This was not how the night was supposed to go. I fumbled royally forgetting the most basic rule of casual hook-ups. Ophelia was in there wondering where I was, probably getting herself off because I was too busy sifting through my roommate’s bathroom for a Trojan like we were back in the fucking barracks.

“All right, I’m going.” I opened a drawer and swept everything I’d thrown on the counter back into it with my arm.

“Pike!”

“No time, brother. You said it yourself.”

“You’re lucky I want you to get some fucking ass more than I want to kill you right now.” He dodged me as I hurried out of the bathroom and back into the hall.

Still in my underwear, I needed to get dressed, grab my wallet, and promise the girl in my bed that if she gave me ten more minutes I’d be on my knees for the rest of the night if that’s where she wanted me.

My buzz had completely worn off and I was laser focused on the task in front of me. Turn off my south brain, turn on my tactical one.

She wants you, Frankie. She said it herself.

When I pushed open my bedroom door all that went directly out the window.

Ophelia’s naked body was curled up on one side of the bed, cuddling the blanket to her chest. Eyes closed, rose pink lips slightly parted.

“O?” I whispered. I leaned back on the door and let it click shut, slowing my sprint to a sedentary crawl. Her chest rose and fell rhythmically.

She was out cold on my pillow and all that lust and energy from seconds prior warmed to something soft and tame inside me. I wanted to play with that sexy, vixen side of Ophelia, but the way she looked asleep in my space, right at home in my bed, filled that need with something different…better.

All my life it’d been my nature to be a provider, protector, a sure thing. An undeniably safe bet. You needed me, I was going to be there. Situationally, but also in my relationships. The need to feel indispensable might have been an issue I needed to work out; it sure as hell cost me a lot of fucking sleep after Delta and a lot of mind games with Vanessa. Some might even call it a flaw, but I thought it was the only thing keeping me human half the time.

Ophelia—feelingsafewith me, trusting me, confiding in me—was tuning that long-forgotten string again.

I walked over and sat on the mattress beside her, lightly pushing a fallen strand of hair away from her face. Her eyelashes fluttered, but she didn’t move beyond that.

You forget that warm, soft buzzing in your chest when you’re watching a woman sleep in your bed. It makes you want to do everything for her. Keep her warm, keep her happy. Keep her…keep her. Period.

But that was the night talking, and the circumstance, and the adrenaline, and every other loose thread we needed to tighten as soon as fucking possible before my brain started tricking me into thinking there were ways this couldn’t end in a disaster.

Because nothing like this could end in any way but disaster.

Despite all that though, I still leaned down and softened that wrinkle between her brow with my lips.

23

Therewasnobedquite like my bed back in Pine Ridge. We’re talking luxury bamboo bed sheets; silk pillow cases that never wrinkled; chemical-free, temperature-regulated fabrics; weighted blankets. The whole nine. Night-time routines were also a ritual: red light therapy at least twice a week, HydroStem serums, jade rollers.

I didn’t fold easily on any of those things. In fact, there were many nights back home that I told a little white lie to get out of a dinner with a guy or an invite from my colleagues for happy hour just so I didn’t sacrifice any “me” time. I needed to apply that eighty-dollar night cream that promised to keep the bags under my eyes from turning into raisins before I hit thirty.

Then I touched down in Florida, and suddenly I was sleeping in men’s boxer shorts on canvas couches with uncovered throw pillows.Willingly, I might add. And waking up with my daily contacts still stuck to my dried-out eyes.

No bed was like my bed.

It wasn’t possible.

But Frankie Casado’s came pretty damn close.

One sleep-crusted lid lifted and I peered out into the bedroom as I woke up, collecting my bearings. The clock beside the lamp on the oak nightstand said it was nine in the morning.

I yawned and stretched my legs as far down the bed as I could, sinking further into the soft mattress. Instead of getting up, I curled the blankets closer to my chest and inhaled them, breathing in the familiar scent of Frankie, who, at that moment, was probably thinking of a million and one polite ways to get me out of his sheets.

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