Page 58 of Golden Touch
That shuts me up. Because I never did have any common sense.
I wiggle out from under him and pad off to the bathroom,giving Nash a much-needed chance to retreat upstairs. Like men do.
But when I come back, he’s still there. In fact, he’s straightened out the covers and claimed one of my pillows.
I hesitate at the side of the bed. “You don’t have to stay. I won’t be offended.”
“I like your bed,” he says sleepily. “Like it even better with you in it.”
Too tired to argue, I climb in, arrange myself on the other side, and pull the covers primly over my naked body. “Well goodnight, then,” I mutter, curling away from him.
“Goodnight, pussycat,” he says. Then he rolls onto his side, reaches out with both arms and hauls me against his chest, making me the little spoon.
I lie very still, but I’m still too wound up to sleep. My brain whirls like a fidget spinner. Meanwhile, Nash’s breathing evens out, and he falls asleep. Like a man without a care in the world.
Unlike me. Razor knows I’m here now. They probably saw my car tonight. That means they’ll be back. They’ll put the whole place under surveillance, and when they’ve figured out my daily schedule, they’ll pounce and drag me away.
There aren’t any security cameras at the brewery, and I bet they noticed that tonight. It’s probably the first thing they checked.
This is terrible. And I just made it twice as complicated by sleeping with the boss’s son. Ipouncedon him. So that’s just awkward.
My life is so tangled that I have worries enough to keep me awake until dawn. Except it’s strangely relaxing to be curled up against a tattooed hunk who’s sleeping. Somehow, it’s like anesthesia. Every time his six-pack rises and falls on another even breath, I feel a little bit sleepier.
It’s getting tricky to focus on my issues when it’s so sleepy in here.
The moonlight creeps around the edges of the tattered curtains, and an owl hoots in the distance.
My last thought before I fall asleep is of Nash’s bright eyes as he’d leaned in to kiss me.
Four hours later, though, I wake up alone. And that’s a good thing, because my first thought is of Nash.NakedNash.
I let out an embarrassing little moan of longing, mixed with a healthy splash of stupidity.
God, what was I thinking? That man is seriously hot, but in a lifetime of bad decisions, he might be the worst one yet. Especially because I’m afraid of what I might do if he walked back into this room right now.
Luckily, he doesn’t. And the house echoes with the variety of silence you get when there’s only one person inside it.
One very stupid person.
Nash probably agrees with me. Maybe he woke up beside me in the predawn light and had a sudden attack ofwhat the hell was I thinking.
Because seriously. Sleeping with your coworker and temporary roommate? Big mistake. Huge.
Maybe we just needed to clear that out of our systems. It’s a theory. So then why did I wake up thinking about him?
Oh right. Because I make poor life choices.
I get out of bed and stomp to the bathroom. It takes a cool shower, some deep breathing, and several high-end cosmetics to get my game face back on. I go with a subtle, smoky eye. And I even apply a few dabs of the salon styling products I keep for special occasions, to tame my curls.
“Special occasions” used to mean a night out at the bar or a party. But those don’t happen anymore. So I style myself up for a little boost of confidence. Men never notice what you actually doin front of the mirror. They just notice the boost of confidence it gives you.
When I feel more ready to face Nash again, I peer through the curtains of the pumphouse. There’s nobody in evidence, so I lock up, shoot towards the back door of the brewery, and then march inside.
The only thing to do is to find Nash and tell him that last night was a moment of weakness for me. That I appreciate all the help he’s given me lately, but we can’t be having a sexual relationship. My life is already complicated enough.
I’d lay odds that he’s busy preparing the same speech for me. He seems like a man who values his independence. When I tell him my thoughts, he’ll surely be relieved.
When I find him, he’s in the brewhouse, his earbuds in, talking to his dad while he checks the readouts on his batches of Goldenpour. “All right. Let’s add some hops,” he says. “Tell me what I’m gettin’ out of the storeroom.”
