Page 63 of A Little Crush
Stop!
Forcing my body to move, I walk out of the bedroom and close the door behind me, ignoring the itching beneath my skin at the prospect of closing the door entirely on the off-chance it’s locked or gets blocked and I’m not able open it if I need to.
Yeah, OCD’s a bitch, and it doesn’t matter how much childhood therapy I endured, or how many hours I spent learning about the disorder, or the fact that my degree is literally in child psychology. It’s always there. Always. Some days it’s stronger, and some days it’s so quiet I’m almost convinced I finally managed to get rid of the beast forever. But ever since my first night watching Poppy—the weight of her safety entirely on my shoulders—the intrusive thoughtshave reached a new pitch, proving to be louder than they’ve been in a very long time.
Did I leave the bottle in her crib?
No, I don’t think so, but maybe I set it too close to the edge of the nightstand and it could fall in?
Stop.
With a deep breath, I lean my forehead against the doorframe, well aware that if I don’t walk away and find a distraction, I’ll repeat the checklist and will likely wind up pulling Poppy from her crib, change her bum, top her off with another ounce of milk, and?—
“Stop,” I whisper before twisting the door handle and closing the door with a quiet click, despite the insistent screaming in my mind to go inside and check on her again.
There. She’s safe. Fed. Clean. I’m sure she’ll be out like a light within minutes.
Stretching my arms over my head, I yawn, then check the time on my phone. My fingers itch to unlock my cell so I can check the baby monitor, but I force myself to slip it back into my pocket.
Jax hasn’t responded to my text yet. It’s been hours. Is he okay? Of course, he’s okay. The interviews should be over by now, but he probably needs some more time to calm down. Maybe watch tonight’s footage and come up with a game plan for the rematch? Maybe. Probably. He’s fine.
Yeah, I definitely need a solid distraction tonight, especially when I know I’ll be up before 5:00 a.m. just like every other morning.
Unsure what else to do, I head to my side of the suite, brush my teeth, and climb beneath the thick white comforter. I must check my phone a dozen more times as the television plays a mindless sitcom before I finally give in and shut it off. Checking on Poppy one more time through my phone’s app, I fall asleep to thoughts of all things Jaxonwith a sprinkling of a certain little girl’s safety in the other room.
The bed dips,and I jolt awake. But it’s the smell that gets me. Alcohol.A lotof alcohol. Hell, it practically punches me in the face. My nose wrinkles, and I blink the sleep from my eyes, finding a hot, shirtless body slipping under the sheets.
“What are you?—”
A drunk Jaxon cuts me off. “Fuck, what are you doin’ here, Rore?”
What am I doing here? Is the guy delusional?
“Uh, sleeping?” I offer. I can’t decide if I’m more amused or confused as my eyes trail down Jaxon’s bare chest before I can stop myself.
Uh, why is he shirtless?
“Sleeping?” He chuckles loudly. “What are you doin’ sleeping inmybed?”
My hand finds his very naked pectorals in an attempt to stop his movements, but his massive body collapses onto the mattress, jostling me beside him and rendering my effort useless. Yup. I am officially sharing a bed with Jaxon Thorne. A very drunk Jaxon Thorne. I stare at the man beside me, unsure what to do. Do I leave? Go to his bed? Do I kick him out? He scoots a little closer, and I shouldn’t like it. Feeling his bare skin against me. The light dusting of hair. The steady beat of his heart. The heat of his body. Seriously, is this guy a furnace? He sure as hell feels like one.
He shouldn’t be here.
“Jax, this is my bed,” I point out.
“Your bed?” he mumbles.
“Yes?”
Can’t he tell it’s a queen-sized bed and not the king-sized one on his side of the suite?
Finding my waist, he tugs me toward him, using me as his own body pillow. “Sorry about that.” His body melts into me even more, molding to mine. I stay on my back and stare up at the ceiling while trying to ignore how easily we fit. “Sorry about a lot of things,” he slurs before his words turn into a defeated sigh. “Can’t believe I fucked up tonight.”
Fucked up?How did he fuck up? By climbing into my bed or pulling me closer or…oh. Hockey. Right. Because some people care about more than their messed-up libido.
Get your head out of the gutter, Rory!
“I fucked up so bad, Squeaks,” he rasps.
