Page 10 of Play Fake
“Do you see a woman in here?”
“No, but that means zilch. She might have gotten what she wanted, saw your Captain America undies and then fled the scene filled with regret.”
A sneer, an actual full-blown sneer, crosses over his lip before he shoves his shirt over his head. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this man frown, let alone sneer. I ponder it for all of a split second before the door bursts open.
“What the hell is going on in here?” Wren gripes, pushing her glasses up her nose as she tries to assess the situation.
Bewilderment consumes her face as her eyes dart back and forth between the giant brute and me. Her mouth forms a tiny little “o” as her eyebrows begin their upward ascent.
Great. Just great. Insult to injury. Now we’ll have a witness to this fiasco.
He smooths his shirt down as he looks at Wren, his signature good-old-boy smile lighting up his face as he makes eye contact with her.
“Mac here is just very interested in what’s in my pants, that’s all. Sorry if her excitement woke you up.” His voice has returned to its usual charming timbre.
I gasp my indignation, a whole slew of insults on the tip of my tongue, but the bastard slides past me and out the room.
“Have a good day, Wren!” He calls behind him as I hear his footsteps trail down the hallway.
I let out a sharp scream as I grab a towel to wrap around myself before turning back to Wren.
“It’s not what it looks like,” I grumble.
“So, you and Waylon Prescott were not just mostly naked together in your bathroom in the early hours of the morning after a party?” Wren gives me a bemused look, fluttering her eyelashes.
“He was mostly naked. I was just getting ready to get in the shower.”
“A shower with him? Did you sleep with him last night? I mean, I wouldn’t blame you… I might even high-five you.”
“NO!” I shout, and she winces. “Sorry, sorry. I… shit. I’m still freaked out. But no. Definitely not. He just happened to be in the shower when I went to get in.”
She watches me for a beat as if there’s a puzzle she’s trying to put together and finally takes a step back out across the threshold.
“Sounds interesting, and I want details, but I’ll let you fill in the rest after your shower.”
“Yes, thanks. Again, sorry,” I frown and hope we didn’t wake up the entire household.
After she closes the door, I take a deep breath. Trying to remember what I’d been doing and realizing the water to the shower is still running, billowing puffs of steam coming out from behind the curtain.
I can still feel where his fingers had grabbed me, the imprint of his body on mine, and I swear I can almost smell the scent of his cologne on my skin. I jump in, happy to scrub everything about Waylon off me. Including the tiny goosebumps still present on my arms and down my neck, which means absolutely nothing because the room is cold. It’s the temperature and not Prescott that has my body responding, obviously.
FOUR
Waylon
I jumpin the truck and slap the steering wheel before I start it up. My head is throbbing, and I need coffee and at least three breakfast sandwiches to try to combat this hangover. I slam the off button on the stereo before the music starts and sends daggers through my skull. Then I root through my gym bag, wishing I’d thrown a water bottle in the console last night before I left. The one currently in my bag is empty, and my mouth feels like the Sahara Desert. Half from the alcohol and half from the sight of Mac in my arms this morning.
I yank my seat belt on, and my back screams in pain. It aches like a motherfucker. Sleeping in an old clawfoot tub had been dumb as hell, but after I’d snuck upstairs and shut myself in the bathroom, it had seemed cozy enough at the time. It would keep me out of sight, and it was definitely not a place Holly would go looking for me.
Although, in retrospect, Holly almost seemed preferable to the evisceration I’d gotten this morning.
“Fuuuuccckkk,” I groan as I recall the scene I’d just escaped.
My lungs constricted a little at the memory of her standing there looking so fucking indignant at being accosted. She’d been fucking stunning. All her gorgeous curves were on display. Her pale skin looked like it would taste like fucking heaven, looking so soft in the morning light. I’d wanted that view for ages.
I couldn’t help it made me fucking hard.
“Fucking little friend,” I mutter, remembering the way she’d laughed at me. I’d been accused of being a lot of things in my life, but little—in any way, shape, or form—was not one of them. I huff. I’d had enough women tell me I was big, a few complaints of too big even, to take what she said seriously, but the fact she’d said it at all made me itch with discomfort. With a need to prove her wrong.
