Page 16 of One Pucking Wish

I flick on the light to the bathroom and close the door behind me, gasping when I catch sight of my reflection. “What in the actual fu…” My voice falters as I approach the mirror. I look like a rabid half zombie from some post-apocalyptic movie. Seriously, how did Frank, Gunner, or even the blue-wig kid and his friends look at me without laughing?

Note to self: invest in some quality waterproof mascara.

I pull out my hair clip and the parts that were still up fall to meet the rest of the disheveled mess that had worked its way out of the clip at some point during this horrendous night.

Turning on the water, I step in.

The warm water soothes my cool skin, and I welcome it. I already feel myself coming back to life. I wash up with the cheap bar of motel soap. It’s not my normal fancy skincare routine, but this face needs a good scrub, discount soap or not.

It’s not until I’m out of the shower, a towel wrapped around my hair and another around my body that I realize I have nothing to wear. The last thing I want to do is put that polyester skirt back on.

I open the bathroom door and peek my head out. A T-shirt comes flying toward me, and I grab it before it hits my face.

“You’re welcome.”

“Why’d you throw me your shirt?”

“Why do you think, Princess? I figured you didn’t have anything to wear unless you wear prissy business skirt ensembles in your sleep, too? In that case, I’ll take my shirt back.” He sits against the headboard, one leg bent and a book in his hand…and he’s wearing nothing but boxer shorts.

Quickly, I shut the bathroom door and take a few calming breaths before putting on the T-shirt that smells like him. I slide my panties back on and glance down at my ensemble. Thanks to Gunner’s super-tall stature, the T-shirt falls just above my knees.

“Well, it could be worse,” I mutter.

Bending at the waist, I flip my head over and scrunch my hair with the towel in an attempt to get as much water from it as possible. When my hair is as dry as it’s going to get, I hang up the towel and open the door.

I stand frozen in the doorway as Gunner makes his way toward me. His tall, massive frame is solid muscle, and I can’t help but stare as he closes the distance between us. If he wasn’t such an asshole, I’d be completely turned on right now. Becoming of his nickname, he is a beast. Every inch of his body is conditioned to perfection. Objectively, his face is quite handsome as well. His dark-black hair lies in spiky chunks, and the scruff on his face is about a week past a five-o’clock shadow. The stubble looks good on him, somehow accentuating his full lips and big brown eyes.

Yeah, if I didn’t hate Gunner Dreven with a passion, I could admit that he is sexy as hell.

“Like what you see?” His voice is deep, his question serious.

Furrowing my brows, I focus in on his eyes. “Get over yourself.”

He hands me a toothbrush, still in its package, and a mini toothpaste—two items I didn’t notice in his hand as I was ogling his body.

I step back as Gunner continues his ascent into the bathroom. “Where did you get these?”

“Frank’s wife dropped by while you used up half the water in Vancouver. Frank noticed we had no bags and thought we might need some essentials.” He dips his toothpaste-covered toothbrush under the running water before brushing.

“Well, that was nice of her. She didn’t have any extra clothes, did she?”

Gunner ignores my question and continues to brush his teeth. It’s fine. It’s obvious the question was rhetorical. I step beside him and start brushing my teeth. I take in the two of us in the mirror. As a pair, we almost fill up this small bathroom. My hair falls in ringlets over my shoulders, and I don’t miss the way Gunner’s eyes keep darting toward my reflection in the mirror.

I can’t quite read his expression. However, he’s never seen me without my hair pulled back and a face full of makeup on. Nor has he ever seen me in anything other than business attire. I’m sure I’m quite unrecognizable.

We finish brushing our teeth in this odd out-of-body experience and retreat to the room of boxes. “How are we going to do this?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“The sleeping arrangement. There’s only one bed,” I snap, gesturing to the bed before us. Not that the gesture was necessary, given it’s the only space in the room not filled with junk save for the walkway to the door and to the bathroom.

“Well, unless you’re a fan of sleeping atop boxes or can find a clean spot on the floor, there really aren’t many options.”

“You’re not sleeping with me,” I protest, and a whine that makes me cringe accompanies my words. Pull yourself together, Penny.

He releases a raspy chuckle. “I think we both know that’s not true.”

“What does that mean?”

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