Page 5 of Space Cowgirl: Houston, All Systems Go
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My reflectionin my bathroom mirror looks just as wild as my thoughts.
I may have made a strategic retreat into my small ensuite, but that doesn’t mean I can’t handle this.
I’m an astronaut. The fastest ever promoted, and currently slated to become the youngest commander ever. Not youngest woman commander, but youngest commander. Period.
I’ve flown over Syrian War zones while in the Air Force and ejected at speeds that would make normal civilians pee their pants. I ride a Ducati and am equally comfortable naked or in leather pants. I need to woman-up.
So what if Holt West is currently in a state of undress in my bed? So what if the package he seems to be carrying makes me want to jump on board and ride him like a mechanical bull I may or may not have made my bitch in a downtown Houston bar once upon a time? I’ve spent my whole life overcoming obstacles, defying odds and handling myself in stressful situations. Iwillhandle this.
If I knew whatthiswas.
I grab fistfuls of my hair and tug, like that will somehow help fill the blank spots in my brain. Why can’t I remember last night? Thinking back, I didn’t have that much to drink. Not for me anyway. I remember Holt coming up to Rose and me at the bar, looking like a hotter reincarnation of Matthew McConaughey’s cowboy stripper in Magic Mike. But then… nothing. I have the vague sense that I climbed… a tree? No, that can’t be right.
Hmmmm.
I blow out a big breath and take a look at myself in the mirror. Tugging my hair did not help the visual situation.
Whatever. It doesn’t matter what I look like. What matters is that I retreated to the bathroom when I discovered Holt in my bed. Starrs don’t retreat.
Time to deal.
I pluck my robe off the hook on the back of the door. Before tying it, I’m out the door, prepared to wake Holt and send him on his way. What I’m not prepared for is him already sitting on the edge of the bed getting a complete look at my womanly goods before I have a chance to close and tie my robe.
I’m on fire this morning.
Silence. Holt just stares at the column of skin exposed between the untied robe.
“Yo. Dude? Eyes up here.”
He clears his throat and finally looks me in the eye. Is he blushing? Holy hell, he is. That is kind of adorable, actually. Who knew hot, rich men could blush?
“Thanks.” I wrap the robe closed and wrench the belt in a tight bow. My hands go to my hips. Body language. Never cross your arms in uncomfortable situations. It lets the other person know you feel threatened. Always find the upper hand, or the upper hand will find you. Another helpful hint from General Starr. I have higher ground for the moment, with Holt still sitting on the bed, so I need to take advantage, cut to the chase.
“We didn’t have sex.” Damn it. That is not what I meant to say.
Holt’s eyebrows shoot up and he seems to be choking back a laugh. “Ah, yes.That is correct.”
Mentally, I shrug. In for penny, in for a pound and all that. “Why?”
His brows V in confusion. “Why didn’t we have sex?”
“Yes. Why didn’t we have sex?”
He adds a head tilt to his furrowed brow. “You were drunk.”
I think on that, surprised and impressed with his gentlemanly restraint. Lord knows I’d probably been up for it.
Okay, regroup. New tactic. I straighten and run my hands down my robe. “Why am I naked?”
“You, ah, took your clothes off.” He clears his throat, not meeting my eyes. “To music.”
“To music?”
“Yes.” He gestures to the floor where my stereo sits, under the multiple to-do lists taped to my wall. My phone is connected and I can see my “Two Finger Salute” playlist up on the screen. Great. I apparently strip-teased for Holt to my masturbation mix.
“I see.” Fuck it. I will own this shit. Vertebrae snap to attention as I straighten my spine even further. “Wereyoudrunk?” Please tell me he was drunk last night too. Please let his memories of last night be pleasantly blurred by the warmth of intoxication.
