Page 68 of No Rings Attached
The closet? Nope, blocked by more boxes.
Then the floor was the last option available. Well, almost the last. If I squished myself into a tiny patch on the carpet not occupied by Mount Cardboard, I’d be fine.
I looked around. Where was my luggage? Glamma had sworn it was in here. Then again, Glamma had also said she’d “made the bed.”
Uh-huh. Bed, my ass.
With a sigh, I gave up. I’d wash up in the bathroom, then beg Drew for a blanket or two. Maybe three, so I could fashion myself a cocoon and survive the night like a very frustrated butterfly.
But one thing was clear: Glamma and her squad had been here. And judging by the suspicious lack of mattress, they were absolutely, without a doubt, up to something.
With a sigh, I realized I needed to go talk to Drew.
I shuffled down the hall, and the closer I got to Drew’s bedroom door, the more my palms sweated. I wiped them on my pants, which only made them damp.
Fantastic.
This wasn’t a big deal. I just needed blankets. Say the words, get the blankets, go back to the guest room. Easy.
I knocked on his door before I lost my nerves.
A muffled reply came through the door. “Come in.”
Except apparently my brain didn’t translate correctly. Because the second I shoved the door open—too hard, naturally, so it banged against the wall—I discovered what he’d actually said was probably more like,“Don’tcome in.”
Because Drew was in the middle of stripping.
My vision was suddenly filled with bare shoulders, a lean muscular torso, and—oh God—he was bent over, pants and boxers tangled around his ankles.
“Hey,” He jerked upright, which confirmed the obvious: Drew was gloriously, breathtakingly naked.
Agoodperson—hell, a good fake girlfriend—would’ve spun around. Made a witty exit and pretended she saw nothing.
Me? I just … stared.
Drew’s eyes went wide, darted around the room, probably looking for his dignity. I couldn’t be sure, because I was laser-focused on the obvious problem between us. And byproblem, I meant the massive, stunning, completely distracting erection currently starring in this very special live performance.
My brain short-circuited.
That’s not a dick, that’s a national monument, Bad Eleanor whispered.
He scrambled to yank his pants up, hopping on one foot, boxers still twisted like a boa constrictor.
One hop. Two.
I should’ve helped. Or turned away. Or left. Or done literally anything other than gawk.
Instead, Bad Eleanor continued to whisper in my head, breathless:Holy hell, that thing deserves its own zip code.
Heat flushed from my head to my toes as I thought about holding it or stroking it. Maybe even giving it a good lick.
On hop three, disaster struck. Drew toppled like a majestic oak tree in a hurricane, arms windmilling, pants still strangled at his ankles.
And then he went down. Hard. The thud shook the floor, Instinctively, he cupped himself mid-fall, like a man shielding the crown jewels.
I didn’t blame him. Something that beautiful deserved to be saved.
And next thing I knew, my brain snapped back into focus.
