Page 10 of The Wrecked One

Flustered, I sat on the bed, trying to process everything.

“I’m not mad.” He pushed away from the doorway, put on his briefs, and covered up before sitting next to me. The back of his hand rested on my bare thigh, open for me to take. He threaded our fingers together, converting our hands to a united fist. “What I mean is, I’m not upset with you. Even if you did choose these cover stories for other reasons.”

I gulped, unable to peer at him. “Why not?”

“Because I accept you for who you are.”

Oh my God. “I don’t deserve you.” The unexpected words fell so fast from my mouth, I barely heard them myself.

With his free hand, he cupped my chin, urging me to look at him. “Don’t say that. It’s not true. Got it?”

I wasn’t much of a crier, but there was something inside me that wanted to do that very thing. Why do I always run? What am I really afraid of? Why couldn’t I even answer those questions? What if there was no reason or root cause as to why I was this way, and I was just messed up?

“Stop. I can see the wheels turning. Your investigative brain is searching for answers, and maybe now isn’t the time for that.” He released my face, let go of my hand, and stood. “We don’t have to do this now. We don’t need to talk about why you have the tendency to run.”

Wait, did I admit that? Or do you just know me that well?

I fidgeted with the hem of my shirt. “So, um, what do we do, then?”

Khaki pants back on, he left them unbuttoned while going for his tee on the floor by my sandals. “Well,” he began while putting on his shirt, the fabric stretching over his taut muscles, “I suppose we go back to playing pretend. We can’t really change things up now. Not unless someone does watch the hallway security footage of me coming to your room. And if they do, then we may have bigger problems.”

Right. Because that means the FYVM Media Group doesn’t trust us, and then Hugo never will, and the mission is over.

Pants buttoned now, he raked a hand through his hair, still mussed up from sex. I loved his features. From his chiseled, stubbled jawline, to his warm brown eyes beneath his thick brows. Everything below that strong chin of his was absolute perfection as well.

“I think you were right about our cover stories,” he said, drawing my attention back to where it needed to be—on the mission. “Whether I want to admit that or not,” he added with a small smile. “I’ll also become unhinged if we do meet Hugo and he so much as eye-fucks you, regardless of our cover stories.” He lifted one shoulder as if trying to play off the whole, Hey, can you blame me? thing. “But it’d be ten times worse if we’d been sleeping together this whole time, trust me.”

I slowly stood. “And what will it be now after what we just did?”

His hand fell to his side. “I suppose three times worse?” He shot me a lopsided grin, and I knew he was trying to ease my concerns. This whole spiel was also so I didn’t feel guilty about anything. So typical of him. I wanted to be mad at him for that, but how in the world can you be mad at someone working so hard to alleviate someone else’s guilt?

“So, no more of this giving-in-to-tension stuff”—I pointed back and forth between us—“until the op ends, then?”

“It needs to end soon.” His shoulders fell, and he frowned. “I don’t think I can go another seventy-six days without touching you.”

He kept count, too . . . “Oliver?”

“Yeah?” He shoved his hands into his pockets as if working to restrain himself from touching me again.

I did the opposite and looped my arms over his shoulders, drawing myself against him while whispering, “Don’t ever change.” I need to change, but not you.

“Even if I drive you crazy?” He slanted his mouth over mine, preparing to kiss me, but pulled back ever so slightly when my cell began ringing in the other room.

“That’s my dad’s ringtone, ignore it.” Thank God they didn’t know what I really did for work, or they’d blow up my phone even more regularly than they already did.

“Maybe it’s important?”

“Everything’s important when it comes to the judge,” I scoffed, still a bit angry at learning of Dad’s indiscretions last year. He was no one to give me advice, that was for sure.

“Hey, at least your old man calls,” he joked.

Where’d that come from? He never talked about his father. I opened my mouth to ask him about it, but he tightened his lips into a thin line and grimaced as my cue to drop it.

“Let’s finish the kiss we’ve yet to start.” He smiled, a fake one, but I didn’t want to press him on his dad issues. I had my own to deal with, so I could relate.

He leaned in and gave me what I wanted and then some. Soft and sweet that became hot and borderline sinful.

A groan left his mouth before his tongue dove inside mine as he fisted my hair.

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