Page 9 of The Worst Kind of Promise
I wish they did.
NEXT STOP: CALIFORNIA
FAYE
When I wake up in the morning, sunlight toasts the tops of my shoulders, slanting over my face and compelling me to crack open an eyelid. The room is already starting to heat up, made evident by the clump of sheets pooled at the foot of the bed. I glance toward the digital clock, which says, 9:05 a.m.
Considering I passed out the moment my head hit the pillow, I haven’t had a lot of time to think about Kit’s proposal. Speaking of Kit, I peek over my shoulder to see how he’s faring on his side of the bed, and that’s when I notice that he’s pants-less. He must’ve shucked them off because of the heat, and now all that greets me are two large, round globes of ass barely contained in the thin covering of his boxers.
Oh my God.
I stifle a squeak and immediately turn back over, squeezing my eyes shut like the image will just magically poof out of existence. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a fantastic ass. But it seems…wrong to be ogling him this early in the morning. Or at all.
Aeris, my brother’s girlfriend, told me about hockey butts, but I never really believed her. Until now.
You could fully bounce a quarter off that thing. Or use it for insulation in the winter.
I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling, reprocessing everything Kit told me last night. Though it’s pretty hard to get my mind to focus on anything when the hard, muscled plane of his back is taunting me. Ridges and hills, all tanned to perfection, rippling slightly with each rise and fall of his breath.
Kit wants you to stay withhim. Not just at the house, but in his room. He wants to spend the summer with you.
He wants to keep an eye on me.
He likes you.
He pities you.
Since hockey season is over for them (the Reapers made it to the playoffs but lost in the conference semifinals), the guys are all on their off-season, which means that me physically being there won’t interfere with any of their schedules. Honestly, being around family might be a good distraction for me. I can’t waste my summer by worrying over what’s already happened.
One downside of this plan is lying about only coming up because I missed everyone. It’s true, but it’s not the full truth. I don’t keep secrets from my brother. Hayes and I are close. It feels wrong keeping this from him, showing up to the house under disingenuous circumstances, but telling him isn’t an option. And now, it looks like staying in Pennsylvania isn’t an option either.
Kit’s offered to look out for me; he’s relinquished his room. He’s putting in a lot of effort to show me he cares, and I didn’t ask him to. He’s rearranging his schedule to make room for me. This matters to him. And I’m beginning to think it matters to me too.
While I’m dealing with the insane spiderweb of thoughts in my head, I feel something warm settle over my stomach, and it breaks me out of my bubble of anxiety. Kit’s tree-trunk arm has braceleted itself around me and, judging by the soft snores still emanating from him, I don’t think he realizes he’s half-cuddling me.
Holy shit. What do I do? Uh, uh, uh. Do I move him?
I shimmy to the best of my ability, not wanting to startle or wake him, but I barely even touch him before my whole body is yanked into his torso. He brings my back flush with his chest, arm still protectively draped over me, all while mumbling incoherently under his breath. When the rustling ceases, Kit’s body is an immovable mountain next to me.
Oh my God. I think he’s spooning me. I get a good whiff of his cologne as it clouds around me, and heat radiates off him in waves. It feels good to be in his arms, despite them crushing me.
I turn slightly to face him, my spine creaking from the throes of sleep. “Kit,” I whisper, prodding his shoulder with my hand.
He stirs, and although the movement is minuscule, my hammering heart ducks behind my ribs. Do I want to wake him up? Do I want to subject myself to a Kit-less cuddle? I…
Suddenly, Kit’s eyes fly open like he telepathically sensed my creepy staring, and the second they land on mine, they grow comically wide. His arms retract and he instantly jackknifes to a sitting position, blurting out a rather disjointed apology.
“Shit. Sorry.” The words rush out.
I’ve never seen Kit blush before. So I’m a bit shocked to find him as red as a beet.
I mirror his position, splaying my back against the headboard. “It’s fine,” I say, trying to diffuse the tension with a nonchalant hand flap.
He scratches the nape of his neck, the action making those freakishly toned abs of his flex. Four lines, eight squares of muscle, about as hard as those marble statues around UPenn’s campus.
Stop looking there. Look at his eyes. His eyes! Where are his eyes?
I wipe away what I’m hoping is drool from sleep and not lust, successfully locating his eyes and forcing myself to hold his gaze.
