Page 22 of Perfectly Wrong

“No, it’s not that.” My stomach grumbled in protest. “I’m just not really hungry.”

He laughed. “Yeah, I figured. Hangovers suck, eh? Next time we play truth or drink, it’ll have to be with orange juice. You know, the drink you, the oh-so-mature grown-up, offered me.”

“I’m glad my suffering is so entertaining for you.” I rolled my eyes, making him laugh harder.

“You’re not suffering, Elena. Try to eat a little; you’ll feel better, I promise. I’ve been there.”

After a few minutes of me just picking at the food, Sam scooted his chair closer and took the fork from my hand.

“Open up,” he commanded.

“You’re not feeding me.” This was getting way too intimate, even for us.

“If you’re not going to eat on your own, then yes, I am.” His tone was insistent. “Come on, Elena. It’s just shrimp, not a three-course meal.”

“Fine, I’ll eat,” I muttered. He handed the fork back, but stayed close, watching me. “You’re so bossy.”

He smirked and kissed my earlobe. “And you’re so grumpy. Let’s add that to your drunk profile: emotional, sleepy, and grumpy.”

I rolled my eyes, and we finished our meal quietly. After brushing my teeth, I climbed back into bed with my laptop. It was Friday, and I still had some work to catch up on. Sam called room service to clear away the dishes, then settled beside me, scribbling in his notebook, hiding the pages from view.

“Working on new songs?” I asked.

“Hopefully,” he replied, glancing at me. “What is it?” Sam asked, noticing my expression.

“Nothing. Just worried you might write about something... risky.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Worried I’ll write a song about our amazing morning sex?”

“Honestly, yes,” I admitted, feeling my cheeks heat up.

Sam thought for a moment. “Would that bother you? I mean, I wouldn’t use your name, obviously, but what about drawing on our... situation for inspiration?”

“I’d rather avoid the risk.” I shrugged. “You could lose your contract, and I’d get fired if anyone found out what’s going on between us. Besides, I think you can do better than writing about the oldest woman you’ve ever been with.”

“Oh, come on.” He shook his head, grinning. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” I batted my eyelashes dramatically. Sam rolled his eyes.

“You’re right.” He kissed me. “I don’t.”

His phone rang, and he reached over to grab it from the bedside table.

“I’ll be right back,” Sam said, giving me a quick wink.

For some godforsaken reason, he decided to leave the room, but not before I heard him greet his father.

It was nearly five in the afternoon when I decided to take a hot bath, hoping to finally wash away the lingering effects of last night’s alcohol. I’d managed to be incredibly productive at work, thanks to being eleven time zones ahead of my coworkers. That left me with the rest of the afternoon and evening free.

I considered going out for a walk, but with Sam around, that wasn’t an option. I couldn’t leave him alone, but I also didn’t want to risk anyone seeing us together. I sighed as I pulled a towel off the hook. Damn it, Martin and his reckless impulsiveness.

When I returned to the bedroom, he was sprawled out on the bed, hands behind his head, eyes following my every move as I got dressed. His gaze made me blush, which was rare. It wasn’t that I was insecure about my body—I never had been. Maybe it was because Noah had always been there, and I’d never had to go through the awkwardness of winning someone over. It had just felt natural to be with him. And after our divorce, I had no intention of getting involved with anyone anytime soon, so I didn’t really care about how others saw me. I wanted to look and feel good for myself, to prove that I was worthy of this second chance life had given me, even with the scars I’d carry forever. But there was something about the way Sam’s eyes lingered on my hips that made me feel like the most desirable woman in the world.

“What are your plans for tonight?” he asked.

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