Page 19 of The First Kind of Love
I comb my hand through the front of my hair, my eyes frantically zipping from the comfy complication in our room to the foreboding exit, and I engage in an internal tug-of-war about whether to confront the receptionist over theclearmistake here. “Of course I didn’t! Something must’ve gotten mixed up. I don’t want to sleep with you!”
Before I realize what I just said—lied—about, there’s a divot between Shiloh’s rucked brows. “Youdon’twant to sleep with me?” she repeats in a low bravado, unaware, or hyperaware, of the fact that she’s the most irresistible thing in the entire country.
Cabo’s decently hotter than California, but not enough to make me sweat from every exposed orifice. Anxiety steamrolls over me and tightens my throat, my conviction coming out half-bitten and half-believing. “No! I just mean…um…I just don’t want you to think…”
Oh, God. Whatdoesshe think? Does she think I’m just another hotshot hockey player trying to use my fame and money to get into her pants? Shiloh’s way more than some rollin the sheets. But if I tell her that, I’m implying that I’mnotinterested in rolling around, and I mean, it’s not like I was actively thinking about it, but…
No, Fulton! Think with the other head.
Shiloh sets her backpack on the armchair, then begins to empty out her personal toiletries in neat little rows. “Relax, Fulton. I’m just messing with you, okay? I don’t think you masterminded this whole thing to get your dick wet.”
I’m not sure if I should be mortified that the topic of my…manhood…is currently in discussion.
I watch as she disappears into the bathroom with her belongings, taking plenty of time to organize her things for quicker access. And after a few minutes of rummaging, she breaks out her carry-on and switches her attention to her travel-sized closet, tucking preplanned outfits into one of the drawers.
I’ve never known someone to be so tidy.
The room is objectively stunning if you can get past the lack of privacy. A sliding balcony overlooks the tepid waters outside, bordered by a cinch of nude-toned curtains. The sun’s fading rays billow in from the giant looking glass, rendering any artificial lighting useless as the space is promptly submerged in a projection of pink radiance. And a heavy bedspread of burnt sienna sprawls over the king-sized mattress, matching the tasseled throw pillows that rest against a mesquite headboard.
The asymmetrical coffee table looks like it’s been carved from a chunk of driftwood, and it’s accompanied by a sectional sofa cloaked in a thin, ivory blanket. The greenery inside is as abundant as the natural vegetation popcorned along the rocky mountainside, ranging from potted snake plants to Mexican flame vines that dangle from the ceiling. Last but not least, there’s a rug compiled of geometric shapes, and a seventy-inch television hangs on one of the walls.
She starts to strip off her oversized sweatshirt, and I’m toolate to avert my eyes when a chunk of it snags on her shoulder, revealing a sinful sliver of her toned stomach.
When I gulp, heat razes my (probably) reddening cheeks. Either the fumes of piña colada-scented candles are getting to my head, or I’ve been inhaling too much of Shiloh’s perfume, because I’m no longer damning the hotel for messing up our room.
“Aren’t you hot?” she asks me.
I nod, and my belly does a backflip.
“I can turn the air-conditioning on, but I’d probably suggest removing a layer just to be safe.”
Removing a layer?Removing a layer. REMOVING A LAYER?
Granted, I do have a layer that can be removed, but this seems…fuck, this seems like I’m skirting a cliffside with no guard rails, no parachute, and absolutely no care for the endless drop below.
I shuck off my own hoodie, immediately feeling a chill whisper over the length of my arms. I try to ignore the heated sensation of Shiloh’s gaze trailing over my now-exposed body. I’m not insanely ripped like some of my other teammates, but I have some honorable muscle definition. Nice arms, nice quads, a hint of abs. I’m not…insecure…about my physique, per se, but I know it’s not everybody’s type. Girls like the six-foot-five mountains that can throw them around like rag dolls, and I, well, look like the nerdy kid you used to babysit.
She gathers her frizzy hair to one side of her shoulder, dragging her fingers through the tangles. And the whole time, while she’s doing something as mundane as fixing her hair, I’ve been staring at her unabashedly.
“The humidity messes up my hair sometimes. Perks of being Vietnamese,” she huffs frustratedly.
I think her hair looks beautiful. Hell, I could stare at her for an eternity, and it wouldn’t be long enough. Of course, I’vealready surpassed the creep-o-meter, so maybe it’s best to keep that comment to myself.
After salvaging her hairmergency, Shiloh plops onto the bed. “You don’t snore, do you?”
“Uh, I don’t think I do.”
“You don’t sleepwalk?”
“Not since I was eleven.”
“You’re not a serial cuddler? Do I need to form the Great Wall of China?”
A weak laugh putters out of me, more to diffuse the tension brewing in my chest than to convey amusement. “I think I can control myself,” I lie, taking a seat next to her.
Being this close to her whets my appetite—the one dead set on tasting the salt of her sweat, the one aching to hold her soft, supple frame against my hard one. It’s not a part of me I’m proud of, okay? It’s like this darker, shunned version of me that shouldneversee the light of day because of the disastrous things that could happen if I abandon my chivalry.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you couldn’t,” she says, those words like a false trigger against my temple.
