Page 101 of Hot Mess Express
Cody smiles with his mouthful. “That’s his decision tonight at this exact moment. It might change when it actually happens.”
“If,” Trey barks back, for a second furious, then turning sweet again as he pops his next bite into his mouth.
Waking up curled into Bridger’s arms is a fucking dream.
Every night I’m by his side, I wake up completely refreshed, my head screwed on right, my eyes alert, and my feelings bubbling up with possibilities for the day.
I’ve never been a morning person. Not once in my life.
Bridger makes it possible.
To be honest, I thought waking up crazy early on a Monday morning would be the worst part.
Nope, not by far.
The worst part is the bastard putting me through the ringer with his ridiculously strict jogging routine. “I need a break!” I rasp at him, out of breath after barely two blocks. “Please! Fuck!”
Even when we’re stopped, he’s jogging in place next to me, a fountain of infinite energy. “Keep your heart rate up,” he tells me, all chipper and cheery.
“How’d I get this outta shape??”
“Go at your own pace. It’s a jog, not a race.”
“The hell’s your secret? You jog like you got triple-A batteries up your ass!”
“Maybe I do.” He grins at me, and I hate how that triples how handsome he looks. Then he winks and continues on without any complaint. Of course he does. The guy is built for this.
I’m built for wheezing on the curbs of streets.
By the time we get back to the house—apparently cutting his usual morning jog in half—it’s still earlier than I’ve ever woken up in the past five years that I can remember. I don’t think I’ve seen a proper early morning since I was in high school racing to make it to my first class in time for the bell.
It’s while in the shower that Bridger notices I’m still off. “Just go and talk to her,” he tells me. “If it’s eating at you.”
“Why’re you always noticing every little thing on my face?” I scrub too vigorously under my arms, scowling. “It’s annoying.”
“It’s my way of caring about you.” He slides the soap down my back—and slips it between my cheeks.
I shoot him a look over my shoulder. “Does your way of carin’ about me include washin’ my ass crack?”
“Definitely.”
“The shit I’m learnin’ about you …” I mutter, shaking my head with a chuckle, but the more he rubs down there, the less I can ignore it, and soon my eyes are rocking back. His soft lips find my neck. The soap is replaced with his smooth fingers.
I swear, something needs to be done, because the horny pair of us can’t keep our damned hands to ourselves.
It’s the afternoon when I come up to the front of Happy Trails.
Juni is sitting in one of our fold-out chairs, curled up with her knees tucked inside an oversized t-shirt. She’s got glasses on that I’ve never seen her wear before, and she’s reading a book.
Okay.
I come up next to her and sit on the curb right where the path crumbles into the gravel of the parking lot. Neither of us say a word. I pick something out of my lips. It’s a hair. Then I scratch at a spot on my arm. And I bat away a gnat from my face.
Finally I can’t stand it. “Didn’t know you wear glasses.”
“I don’t,” says Juni, sighing the words. “They’re fake.”
“Oh.” We fall into silence again. I bat away the same gnat from my face. I scratch at the same spot, convinced a mosquito bit me during my morning torture session with Bridge—oh, sorry, I mean morning jog. I listen to distant traffic in town.
