Page 52 of Cocky Prince
She crawls up behind me, and if I weren’t in so much pain, I might think of ways to take advantage of the situation. But all I can think about is that I still have to stand up, walk to my car, and drive my sorry ass home. I should have taken painkillers hours ago, but I was in the zone. Now I’m paying for it.
Warm little heatblaster hands flatten on the top of my head—and drain the pain right from my skull.
My shoulders relax, and my eyelids close. Hayden’s fingers slide to my temples and she rubs in gentle circles. I rest my forearms on my knees, and my head drops. I sense her angle closer to reach me. I shouldn’t lean this far forward, but it feels so good I can barely keep myself upright. One of her hands slides to my neck. She begins massaging my head with one hand and my neck with the other.
I am in heaven. Feels so good…
I should probably tell her she doesn’t need to do this, but Hayden is willingly putting her hands on me. I’m no dummy; I keep my damn mouth shut. And that’s when I really lose track of time, because everything melts.
The tension caused by Blue Casino.
The barriers holding Hayden and me apart.
Until I’m dreaming there’s nothing standing between us…
Chapter Twenty
Hayden
I’ve never seenAdam this exhausted. When I went to the bedroom to check on him, he was wavering in the doorway, his hands clutched to his head. I didn’t think; I simply dragged him to the bed to help relieve his obvious pain.
A gust of air escaped his mouth as soon as I placed my hands on his head. He’s been quiet for several minutes now. No banter, no insults. Which isn’t like him.
After another five minutes of rubbing and admiring my kick-ass walk-in closet that looks amazing and is going to make all my shoe dreams come true, I notice something peculiar. Not only is Adam not bantering with me, he isn’t moving either.
I hold my fingers still. “Adam?”
Nothing.
I lean closer. His breathing is steady—really steady—and his eyes are closed. A light snore sounds.
He fell asleep?
Adam looked tired these last couple of days. He’s been working late at Blue, because my coworker spies tell me so, and now I’ve got him working all weekend at my house. What kind of person am I? I knew I shouldn’t have listened to him when he said he didn’t mind building the closet.
I sit back on my hands, feeling terrible. Should I wake him? Let him sleep a little, then wake him?
I tilt my head and study his posture. He looks uncomfortable all hunched over.
Reaching out, I gently push his shoulder to the side, just to see what will happen. I fully expect him to wake.
He doesn’t. Instead, he tips onto his back, one hand falling across his chest.
Adam Cade is asleep on my bed. And he looks adorable all relaxed and boyish. But still, this is weird.
Is he sick? I place the back of my hand to his forehead. He feels fine. In fact, he reaches up and covers my hand with his strong, wide palm, and my heart barrels around in my chest. His palm is warm and callused, just like it looks, and now I have Adam on my bed and my hand trapped beneath his.
And why is that such a bad thing? Adam is H.O.T., and the hero of many of my daydream fantasies, when I wish to torture myself. But I can’t sit like this all night.
I could wake him. That would be the normal thing to do. But I don’t want to. First of all, he’s exhausted, the reason he crashed during his head massage. Seems kind of mean to force him awake. Second, and I know this is the most selfish reason of all—I don’t want him to leave.
I’ve enjoyed having Adam over to work on the closet, shocking as it is to admit. Sometimes I would hang out with him, because it was incredibly sexy to watch him use his skilled hands—and because I enjoyed his company. We talked like we’d been friends forever. He never made me feel bad about the past. I actually feltbetterafter sharing it with him. Other times, I’d get my own work done in a different room. But mostly, Adam made the space I grew up in warmer. Which makes no sense.
I gently ease my hand away, and he rolls to his side, a soft snore-breathing sound rumbling from his chest. I stand and walk around him, pulling his legs onto the bed. Instead of waking, he burrows deeper into the comforter. I carefully take off his boots. And, okay, I’m being super gentle not to rouse him at this point, but still. Most people would stir with even a light tug. Maybe he’s one of those heavy sleepers?
Adam can’t sleep like this forever. He’ll wake in an hour and wonder what happened. Then he’ll go home. Which is fine, and much more humane than shaking him awake when he’s beat.
That decided, I exit the bedroom and close the door partway. I clean up the kitchen, watch the last of the late-night news, and fold a load of towels. The entire time, I’m expecting Adam to walk out, dazed, and asking me what happened.
