“Kimberly, I got this.” There’s a short pause, and the floor quiets along with her mouth. “I have my Mace, and if he tries anything, I won’t hesitate to use it.”
4
Jo
Bacon. The smell is unmistakable. For a moment, I lie there dazed and confused.
Shit.
I’m not at home. I’m not even at the hotel room Jamison booked for us on the beach.
I glance around as last night comes slamming back into me.
Jamison and the maid.
Me storming out.
My drive to the middle of nowhere.
The taco stand.
Nachos.
Tears.
Jamison’s phone call.
A hot but nosy guy.
The same hot guy who was also a macho asshole, but also kind of sweet.
Trying to catch some sleep in my car because my stupid ass drove to who-the-fuck-knows-where Florida.
The same kind of sweet asshole finding me in the parking lot of some random store and offering me a place to sleep.
And somehow, God only knows why, I agreed to go to his house.
I mean, I know why. My rental car is expensive and foreign, but in no way is it comfortable. Also, I didn’t exactly feel safe from prying eyes and passersby as I lay in the parking lot, try to sleep and failing.
That all led me to here.
Sleeping on the couch of the hot, sweet jerk, still in the middle of nowhere, but alive and almost rested.
I peer down, lifting the blanket, making sure I still have on my clothes.
Anything could’ve happened while I was sleeping. I took a sleeping pill last night. Probably not the smartest thing to do, but I couldn’t get settled.
I take a minute to look around the room I barely had time to take in last night before he threw some blankets down and left me alone, not giving two shits if I was a murderer or a thief.
I’m not either, but I could’ve been, and he didn’t seem to care one way or the other. That’s the luxury of having a penis and not being in the public eye.
The living room is nicely decorated. Nothing feminine, but clean lines without an ounce of color except black and white.
A well-worn black leather chair is next to the couch, with a chrome-and-glass coffee in front of the two, rounding out the ensemble. Everything is neat and organized, which is more than I can say about my place in LA or Jamison’s, for that matter.
“You eat eggs?”
I bite my lip, lying perfectly still, hoping he’ll carry on without me.
Play dead. I could do that. I’ve done it before, and it’s always worked. I have the ability to hold my breath longer than most Olympic swimmers. I could fool him, right?
Duh, Jo.
Play dead too well and he may call the police, which would then lead to an ambulance, which would then lead to too many people asking too many questions.
The last thing I want to do is make small talk with a stranger over breakfast in day-old clothes with makeup that no doubt has smeared down my face, making me look like something out of a horror movie.
“Babe, heard you move. I know you’re awake. Stop fuckin’ around. You want eggs or something else?” he asks again, this time standing over me, eyes studying me as I lie as still as a statue, but my eyes are wide open.
I lift my gaze to him and narrow my eyes. “Scrambled with cheese and ketchup.”
Holy mother of God.
In the darkness last night, I could tell he was cute, even if I did have blurry vision from the stupid tears filling my eyes. But in the daylight…in the daylight, he is…
He winces, holding a spatula in one hand and a pan in the other, giving me a super-judgy look. “That’s criminal.”
I roll my eyes as I sit up, avoiding his stare and needing to look away instead of gawking at the insanely hot and shirtless man standing over me. “You asked. I answered,” I throw back, sounding snotty as hell.
“Suit yourself,” he grunts before the sound of his boots against the hardwood grows softer, and I finally allow myself to breathe.
He didn’t ask me a million questions, never even tried anything remotely indecent, and he is making me breakfast. Eggs, to be exact. Something no man I’ve ever dated has done for me before. I need to put my attitude aside, saving it for the real person I am pissed at—and that man is Jamison.
I stand up and turn to face where the sound of his footsteps went. For a moment, I’m stunned and motionless. The kitchen is more beautiful and immaculate than the living room. Shiny black cabinets with white stone countertops. Totally manly.
He peers in my direction as he stands in front of the stove, looking like he does this every day. My mouth is suddenly dry as I soak him in, shirtless and covered in muscles and sporting a massive back tattoo, with his pants slung low on his hips.
“Toast?” he asks, giving his attention back to the pan and taking it away from me.
Fucking hell.
The man may not talk in complete sentences, but his body is smokin’ hot. Jamison, on the other hand, is tall, thin, and not a single piece of ink. He is willowy and athletic, but in no way would I describe him as ripped. This guy, though… has the entire package.
When I don’t answer, he turns his deep blue eyes back to me.
I swallow, suddenly dumb struck and mute.
“Toast,” he repeats, smirking. “Bread. Do you eat it?”
I nod, not speaking.
“Wheat?”
I nod again because I’m a freaking moron.
Beautiful men with hot bodies aren’t new to me. But based on the way I’m acting, it’s as if I’ve never seen anything like him before.
“Bathroom?” I squeak out, somehow finding my voice lodged somewhere in my vagina.
He ticks his head to the right. “Down the hall. Second door on the right.”
I grab my phone off the coffee table and make a beeline for the bathroom, needing to check in with Kimberly. When I turn on my screen, I have five missed text messages, all from her and none from Jamison.
Thank God.
Kimberly (7:08 a.m.): Are you okay?
Kimberly (7:15 a.m.): I’m worried.
Kimberly (7:21 a.m.): Bitch, I’m texting you.
Kimberly (7:31 a.m.): Maybe I should call the police and send them to Nick’s.
Ahh. That’s right. I’d forgotten his name in the haze of last night. Thank God for her.
Kimberly (7:33 a.m.): I’m getting ready to call the cops. Last chance.
My eyes widen.
If the cops are about to beat on his door, it’s because my publicist is completely insane.
I dial her immediately, and on the very first ring, she answers. “What in the fuck is wrong with you?” she yells into the phone, almost blowing out my eardrum. “I’ve been up all night worrying about you.”
“I’m fine. Thanks,” I say sarcastically.
“Jo, I’ve been texting you for over a half hour. What in the fuck have you been doing? I thought he killed you and I was too late to save your life.”
“You seriously need to stop watching so many crime shows. Not everyone is a murderer.”
She makes a pfft sound. “You clearly need to get your head out of your Hollywood ass and realize there’s real life and fiction. You’re not living in a fairy tale or some sappy television sitcom. Bad shit happens to good people. And bad shit happens even more to rich people who live in the public eye. That bad shit also seems to happen a lot in small towns no one has ever heard of.”