Page 60 of If Not for My Baby
Tom Halloran:I’m having an ice-cold shower. I surely won’t be thinking of what’s beneath your Cabaret T-shirt. Get some sleep you cruel, cruel woman.
My thighs press together and I swallow a stupid, satisfied grin. It’s almost five in the morning and I’ve never felt less tired. Perhaps I’ll never sleep again. The pipes of the en suite shower creak on and water rushes out directly behind me.
Tom is actually showering.
All lean-muscled, chocolate-haired, six foot six of him, because ofme.He’s naked in there, taking a middle-of-the-night rinse-off justa footaway because of words I said.
Tonight has not been good for my ego. I tamp down the urge to flee my bunk and slide in there with him. I’m temptedto send him a racy picture to drive him mad post-shower but decide against resorting to sadism—another con of genuinely liking the guy. My entire outlook on our flirting has warped. It’s rooted now in something that’s a little frightening. It’s possible I’ve never had the kind of sex we’d likely have—if we were to sleep together, I’m confident it would ruin men for me altogether. I’d never be the same.
I’m even more terrified that I don’t seem to care.
Twenty
“Someone’s sleepy.” Grayson drops hiscards on the table. “Two sixes.”
I hide my next yawn in my sleeve.
“Bullshit,” Wren says around a toothpick.
Grayson looks at her with irritation before scooping up a hefty stack. When I yawn a third time, even Indy gives me a concerned look.
“I didn’t sleep much,” I admit. “One seven.”
“Three eights.” Indy lays her cards atop the new pile delicately. I know she’s lying because I have two eights in my own hand, but I’m too tired to call her on it. “You should try to nap before we arrive.”
“I’m all right. I’m saving all my sleep for that hotel bed.”
We’ll make the easy trip from Boston to NYC tonight directly after the show, and when we arrive I’ll get to sleep in an actual bed with a box spring and more than one pillow. Heaven on earth.
“Lucky bed,” Grayson says, eyes crawling over my neck.
Indy makes a face. “Don’t be gross.”
“I’m always gross,” he replies with the edge of a grin. “Two nines.”
“Bullshit,” I say. While Grayson rakes in the stack with a groan, I get up to forage through the snack drawer for something that will give me some energy. My fingers are hovering over a granola bar when the suite door slides open.
Tom slinks out rubbing at his eyes. He looks a little worse for the wear: his beard needs trimming, scruff creeping down his neck where it’s usually shaved clean. His curls are even more unkempt than usual, as if he fell asleep on wet hair and then tossed and turned.
Conor follows him out and brews a cup of tea. Tom checks his phone. He doesn’t look at me once. A low-pitched yawn overtakes him and practically shakes the front lounge.
“What is with you two?” Wren asks. “Fucking Greek chorus of fatigue.”
My eyes snap back to the open drawer beneath my hands.You two.
There’s something bizarrely erotic about sharing this secret. It couldn’t be more pedestrian—all we did was text—but that doesn’t stop the butterflies going haywire in my stomach.
“Who?” Tom asks from beside me, taking his tea from Conor.
I peek up with an exhale, but find his relaxed posture and blush-less face oddly irritating. Is our proximity doing nothing to him at all? My mouth is watering at the smell of his cotton T-shirt alone.
“Clementine’s been yawning all day, too,” Pete says, eyesglued to his game ofMario Kart. Molly groans beside him, her car obliterated by some kind of…turtle? This game makes less and less sense to me the more I watch it. Pete’s eyes light with triumph but he’s smart enough not to gloat.
“They’re still coming down from their Philly bender,” Molly says, defeated.
My eyes widen as I search my sleepless mind for words. “I—”
“Clem wishes she could drink like the Irish,” Tom jests. His eyes finally find mine, warm and penetrating.
