Page 41 of Strictly the Worst

He walked into the bedroom a minute ago, and did a double take when he saw I was already in bed. On the left side, because when I was with Jared I always had to sleep on the right side and I hated it.

“I’m just wondering if we should have the talk now,” he says. “Because if you want my body, we should at least exchange health details.”

“Shut up and get in.” I roll my eyes and lift the cover. He walks over, pulling his t-shirt off so he’s just in a pair of shorts and I really try not to look at him.

But dear god, it’s not fair. This man has everything. The easygoing nature, the flair for getting what he wants and the world’s most perfect body.

“You okay, Carmichael?” he asks, smirking.

“I’m a little warm,” I say huskily, because I know what he’s doing. Trying to rile me up again. But two can play at that game.

I pull the covers off my own body, revealing the short pajamas I bought at Bloomingdales. Ange had insisted I needed something lighter than the flannel I wear in New York.

His eyes dip to my thighs and he lets out a long, low breath.

“Might want to cover up,” he tells me. “I turned the air conditioning up.”

“Then you should probably put your t-shirt back on,” I tell him.

“I never sleep in a t-shirt.”

“And I usually sleep naked. So let’s compromise.”

His eyes darken and I like it a little too much. It’s been a long, long time since a man looked at me like that.

“You’re playing with fire,” he mutters, climbing into the bed beside me. The mattress dips deliciously.

I shimmy down the bed and roll onto my side, facing him. He does the same.

“So this is weird,” I say. “I can’t remember the last time I had a sleepover.”

“Want me to paint your nails?” he asks, and I grin.

“I could do yours.”

“I have a manicurist for that.”

Of course he does. The man is perfectly polished.

“What else do girls do at sleepovers?” he asks, blinking slowly. He has the most delicious thick eyelashes.

“Not what you think,” I say dryly.

“I wasn’t thinking about sex.” He runs his thumb along his jaw. “Though now I am.”

“It’s hard to remember what we did,” I say, quickly changing the subject. “I guess we talked about our other friends. The boys we liked. Our parents.”

“Where did you grow up?” he asks.

“In Texas.”

“Your parents still there?”

“No, they moved to California.”

“That’s a long way from New York,” he says and I nod. I don’t see them that much anymore.

“Truth or dare,” he says.

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