Shit. Not thinking was proving to be a surefire way to think too much. When what he needed to focus on was the slight lie he’d just told her.
It wasn’t that he hadn’t had a chance to tidy up before his last shift. He hadn’t had a chance to tidy the apartment in weeks. It felt like all the days had been one endless shift, with barely enough time to come home, shower, open a beer, and crash before he’d finished drinking it.
Plus, it wasn’t like there was anyone to clean up for. No one laid eyes on the place except his brother, smug married bastard that he was—although he’d pressed his suits long before Maggie came into the picture.
There were mugs on the coffee table, old Starbucks paper cups piled by the sink. Along with at least three nights worth of dishes, not to mention papers stacked all over the place, and, for whatever reason, a pair of jeans thrown over the back of the couch. He’d have to make sure there weren’t any boxers on the bathroom floor.
Or in his bedroom, for that matter.
“Wait here,” he told Talia and parked her by the door. “Don’t move.”
“There’s no place to move,” she pointed out, hemmed in by all the crap on the floor.
“Just sit tight, smartass,” he grumbled.
He could have sworn she was laughing at him as he darted into the rooms, picking shit off the floor and shoving it in his bedroom closet, which he closed with a silent prayer that it wouldn’t bust open and have his life come tumbling out.
Whatever. No one was crying right now. Focus on what mattered.
“I’ll get you some clean sheets and a towel,” he said as he came back to the living room. “Uh, make yourself at home.”
“Somehow, I’m pretty sure you don’t mean that,” she said as she went over and perched on the edge of the couch.
Yup, she definitely thought he was an asshole. An asshole who was saving her butt right now, but it wasn’t like he was being Prince Charming about it.
What could he say? I’m married to my job and my fiancée left me because my work is too dangerous and I don’t have people over and it’s freaking me out just to see you sitting there? Like that would help in the first-impressions department. He’d rather be thought an asshole than straight-up weird.
“Do you need anything?” he asked.
“A new apartment, a new bank account so I can get said apartment, and a Xanax. Wait.” She bolted upright. “I was kidding about the pill thing, I seriously don’t—”
“If you have one, fork it over,” he said, holding out his hand. “I want to sleep like I’m dead.”
She laughed.
Shit, she laughed. A sudden, bright sound cascading through the apartment. It sounded…nice.
Come on, Reed. Don’t go thinking about how her laugh sounds nice.
“I promise I’d share if I had one.” She sank deeper into the couch and let her head roll back, closing her eyes. “You’re not all bad,” she said. “For an asshole. I could fall asleep right here.”
He shook his head. “Bedroom.”
“The couch is fine.”
“That couch is a piece of shit and you know it. Come on, you have things to do tomorrow. Get an actual night’s sleep and take the bed.”
He went into his room and grabbed a pair of sweatpants, a T-shirt, a towel, and an extra sheet and pillow.
“Get off my couch,” he said when he came back and she still hadn’t moved.
She snorted. “What a gentleman.”
But she got up, grabbed her bag, and stalked off to his bedroom.
Good.
The door to his bedroom closed, louder than was strictly necessary, and he sank down into the couch. He could still picture her eyes. Those piercing eyes. They needed to stop looking at him, like they could see something there.
And her mouth. The shape of her lips, always talking. Yammering away at him in the car. Giving him that smartass smirk like she knew he had a badge and didn’t much give a shit.
God, he was tired.
And wired.
And—
Jesus, how was that even possible? Now?
Tired, wired, and…hard.
Not like he’d take care of it on the couch when the cause of his current frustrations—and his current erection—was right inside his bedroom. Probably stripping off her clothes, putting that fucking mind-numbing peach lacy thing on, and crawling into his bed…
Stop thinking, Bishop.
He threw a sheet down, punched the pillow a few times, and spread his enormous body over the not-enormous couch. Talia was right. It was stupid for him to sleep out here when he barely fit.
But he rolled over, closed his eyes, and willed himself to stop being a horny bastard and get to sleep.
He couldn’t wait for this night to be over.
He couldn’t wait for this gorgeous, insufferable woman to be gone.
Chapter Four
Talia woke up with a jolt to the alarm on her phone.
For a second, she forgot where she was. She saw the unfamiliar bedroom, the light through the curtains. It took her a minute to remember.
She had moved. She had a new apartment. She was living on her own.
Then she raised up onto her shoulders and did a double take. Dark wood dresser. Soft, gray duvet. Button-down shirts draped over a chair.
In a rush it came back to her—Stacey’s apartment, her rude awakening, the middle-of-the-night flee from Brooklyn.
The hotter-than-hell special agent just outside this room.
She let her head fall back on the pillow. Crap.
She supposed it was too much to hope that Reed had an early shift and had already left. Slipping out of bed, she tiptoed to the door and cracked it open to spy the lump on the couch that meant he was still sleeping.
He’d gotten a sheet, but half of it was on the floor. His sweatpants hung low on his hips. His T-shirt had ridden up, and she could see the line of his boxers and a not-insubstantial amount of skin. Not to mention a dark line of hair trailing a forbidden line down under the waistband to his—
Holy shit.
She crept closer, grateful his floor didn’t creak and give her away. Was she seeing what she thought she saw?
Sweet. Jesus. Her eyes widened like she was a teenager gossiping with Jessie in the halls, both of them innocent and easily awed. Through his sweatpants was an unmistakable outline. Standing at, if not quite full attention, then full enough to make the heat flame to her face. Full enough to make it clear that what was in Reed’s pants was just as large and imposing as the rest of him.
Yikes.
Time to back away slowly, get changed, and get out. She’d grab coffee and breakfast on her way to rehearsal. Spend all day dancing her heart out. And then, when she’d (hopefully) lived through her first day as the principal dancer for Giselle, she’d finally have a chance to think through what to do next.
She turned, crossing her fingers and toes that she wouldn’t wake Reed—then walked right into a side table and whacked her shin on the edge. A stack of papers fell to the floor. It was just her luck to wind up staying with the one person on the planet as messy as she was.
Reed bolted up with a start.
“Who’s there?” he shouted, reaching around as though instinctively trying to grab the gun that she was glad was nowhere near him.
“Relax, it’s just me!”
She rubbed her shin with a wince. She could see him immediately taking in the scene. No way his eagle eyes would miss the fact that she was standing way too close for her to have been “accidentally” walking by.
He was going to think she was weird. A desperate horndog creeper. He’d have every right to kick her out now if he wanted to.
Although, granted, she wasn’t the one with the monster erection poking out of her pajama pants. So, really, it could always be worse.
Reed grabbed one of the couch pillows that had been tossed on the floor and held it strategically.
Not like he was trying to hold it strategically. Like he j
ust enjoyed hanging around hugging pillows in the morning. Like he actually thought she might not have noticed and would fall for his act.
She tried not to laugh, but she couldn’t help it. She had zero poker face. Anyone who knew her learned that fact fast.
At least now they were even. He’d seen her boobs, and she’d seen his morning wood. She tried, and failed, to suppress another giggle.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he said, clutching the pillow like it had personally affronted him and he needed to torture a confession out of it.
“I was just—” There was no good way to finish that sentence. I was just checking you out while you were sleeping was a surefire way to find herself sleeping on the sidewalk instead of in his bed.
“Were you spying on me?” His eyes narrowed.
“I was looking to see if you were still sleeping,” she said hotly, like that was a totally normal thing to do and he was the fruit loop for suggesting otherwise.
“Well, I was asleep,” he grumbled.
“Yeah.” She rubbed her shin. “Sorry about that.”
He rolled his eyes and tossed the pillow right at her face. Looked like five seconds in her company had made his hard-on disappear. How flattering.
She’d thought she was smart for sleeping in actual pajamas, making sure she wouldn’t be caught off guard again. But now the soft T-shirt she’d put on seemed embarrassingly see-through. The blue pants with whales on them were silly. She threw the pillow back at him, trying to keep her cool.
Kitchen, bookshelf, papers. Think about doing the dishes, dance rehearsal, anything but what you just saw.
Her blush subsided. Or she hoped it did. When she spoke, it was crisp and purposeful—all business, no lust.
“I’ll get dressed and go,” she said, moving toward the bedroom.
“Go where?” She heard the sleep in his voice—and the way he quickly masked it. From the second he woke up, he was on full alert.
“Out of your hair,” she said, to hide the fact that she didn’t know.
“You can’t be out of my hair,” he said.
“Because you don’t have any?” She flashed a winning smile.
“You know, you’re the first person who’s ever said that to me.”
“Can’t blame a girl for trying.”
“I thought we went over this, Talia. Where are you going to go?” He didn’t even crack a smile.
Goddammit, did he never laugh?
“Rehearsal,” she said, looking away from where the sleeve of his T-shirt slid up his arm as he pulled it across his chest to stretch his shoulder. The ocean tattoo went all the way up, the sea getting darker as it climbed his biceps and arced into the crest of his shoulder. “Are you going to come with me to make sure I’m safe?”
She raised an eyebrow, like she was looking at him for the answer to her sarcastic little question. Not like she was looking at him because she couldn’t make herself stop.
“This isn’t a joke,” he said.
“I know it’s not.” Which is why I need to stop checking you out. “I’m just saying—”
“You have rehearsal. I get that. And after?”
“I’ll go back to my apartment?” she said hopefully. Couldn’t hurt to try, right?
He stood, all six foot whatever of him towering over her, bigger now in the full light of morning than she’d even remembered from the night before.
He took a step closer, arching his back, stretching his body like he didn’t care that she was standing right there, that she could see his stomach, his abs, his…everything.
“I’m going to find out what I can about Stacey,” he said. “But you can’t go back there until this mess with Jonnie’s resolved.”
She swallowed. How could they be standing like this, hanging around in their pajamas, so incongruous with what they were talking about?
“I’ll go to a friend’s,” she said. “It’s the morning. I can call people now and not seem like a drama queen.”
“Who are you going to stay with for an indefinite amount of time?” He looked skeptical.
“Indefinite?” The word came out louder—and higher—than she’d expected. Her voice was kind of…spiraling up.
“I’m trying to be realistic,” he said.
She threw up her hands. “And I’m trying not to have a conniption in your living room.”
“I see that.”
How could someone so attractive have so little charm?
“Last night you said—”
“I said we’d get some sleep and figure it out in the morning. Well, I’m figuring it out. And it still doesn’t look good.”
“So now what?” Her stomach plummeted. She was supposed to be thinking about rehearsal, feeling the music inside her, going through the warm-up steps right now—not standing in a stranger’s apartment, feeling the heat of his stare flame up her skin, facing the reality that she still had no place to go.
Reed pinched his eyes together. “I need coffee before I can deal with this.”
Now she was insulted. “I’m telling you, you don’t have to deal with me.”
“Coffee first,” he repeated.
“Reed—”
“Coffee.”
Goddamn him.
Was he inviting her to stay for breakfast? Should she ask? She had no idea. But he stumbled past her into the bathroom and shut the door.
Okay, then. She went into the kitchen and fumbled around, looking for coffee filters, trying not to think about Reed’s sleepy eyes, his yawn, his hulking form as he inhaled so deeply his pecs stretched the cotton of his T-shirt as the sweatpants dropped low on his hips.
So she’d spent the night and was now making him coffee.
And eggs, because, dammit, she was hungry and she didn’t have a lot of time to eat before rehearsal. What he was or wasn’t wearing—what she had or hadn’t seen—had nothing to do with it.
She’d thought she was doing fine. It was just eggs. How hard could it be? She’d seen Jessie make them a thousand times before. Jessie joked about her needing a fire extinguisher, but it wasn’t like she couldn’t do anything.
The next thing she knew, there was a very, very loud beeping noise and a very, very bad smell.
Reed barged out of his bedroom, his pants unzipped and half off his hips, his shirt unbuttoned. He was shouting, the smoke alarm was beeping, and what had once been in the pan was now…black.
But cool, brain. Thanks for noticing Reed’s abs while l set the place on fire.
Moving impossibly fast, he turned off the gas, pushed the pan off the burner, turned on the microwave vent above the stove, and reached up to disable the alarm.
Then, and only then, did his hands go to his crotch so he could zip up his pants.
He unleashed a torrent of cursing so impressive, she kind of wanted to applaud.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, hoping he’d know she meant it. “I turned around for one second to put the toast in, and it all…” She mimed a bomb going off in her hands.
She should’ve stuck with cereal, which probably would have made a mess anyway. At least the bread wasn’t—
The toast popped up. Huh, looked like his toaster was mighty speedy, too.
“My God.” He stared at the burnt toast and the smoke rising up. “You should figure out how to monetize this. It’s a talent.”
“I’m sorry,” she said again, feeling really, really bad.
He opened his mouth and she braced herself for more variations on the word motherfucker. But instead he seemed to stop himself and sighed.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s just eggs. And toast.” He paused, eyeing her uncertainly. “And maybe my sanity.”
“I told you, I can get out of here.”
“Don’t be silly. I should be thanking you.”
“What the hell for?”
“At least now I’m definitely awake.”
He dumped the eggs into the trash. His shirt was still unbuttoned and when he turned, it fluttered o
pen even more. She could see every outline in the muscles of his chest and abs. The hair down his stomach. The smooth, olive warmth of his skin.
He reached out a hand. For a second, she almost put her palm in his. It was like she could already feel it, his strong arm, his calloused palm.
Then he grabbed the spatula from her.
Right.
Breakfast, then rehearsal. Those were the only two things that needed to be on her mind.
“Go,” he said.
“You’re kicking me out?”
“Out of the kitchen. Get dressed while I make something that resembles food. Some people think the yolks are at their best when they’re still yellow.”
“Hardy har har,” she grumbled. “You’re a real laugh riot, you know.”
“And I’ll get a key for you,” he added.
“Wait—are you sure?”
“I’ll leave you my cell number, too.” He kept his eyes on the pan. Like he was making sure it didn’t erupt into flames…or studiously avoiding looking at her.
“You’re not just talking about tonight?” She didn’t know whether to be relieved to have a place to stay or tearing her hair out that it was here. With him. Which was so not a solution.
She saw his jaw clench. Then the toast popped, perfectly golden on both sides.
“If you put it in for a second round of toasting, you have to flip it before you press it down again,” he said, answering a question that hadn’t been asked. “And yeah,” he said. “Not just for tonight.”
Oh. Huh.
“Okay,” she said, because she had to say something. And then, because she couldn’t think of anything else, she said, “I’ll get the plates.”
“Coffee’s ready. There’s cream in the fridge if you want it.”
“You don’t by any chance have almond milk?” she asked. “Soy? Oat? Hemp?”
“Are you kidding?” His face wrinkled up in obvious confusion.
“No, it’s a real thing. They make it out of soaked hemp seeds and it’s—”
“Not the seeds. I mean, are you kidding that you think I’m hanging around with a fresh carton of oat milk just for you?”
Wrong Bed, Right Girl Page 4