Page 47 of Love Me, I Dare You

Annoyed, he’s berating me after he’s the one who forced me to jump in fear, since there was a strange man in my bed when I’m not used to having men in my bed. “Well, sorry for freaking the fuck out that you were lying in my bed while I was in it.”

“You mean you don’t remember?” he asks, looking almost hurt. Oh God, please God, tell me I did not fuck Nash Bishop last night while in a medicated induced haze. “Fuck, Bailey. You should see the look on your face. Relax, nothing happened.”

Nash straightens, and it’s the first time I take in his full appearance. Oh, it was the wrong thing to do. Nash is drop dead gorgeous when he’s dressed head to toe in black jeans and his leather jacket, but shirtless, in nothing but a pair of dark jeans, the same ones he was wearing last night, which hang low on his hips showcasing the perfect V-shape I love to see on a man, while he’s waking up next to me in bed, that’s a fucking sight to see.

His dark hair is disheveled, showing just how long it’s gotten since he’s come back, while his eyes are low and seductive from a long night of sleep after an even longer night spent in a hospital waiting room. Not that it was incredibly busy, but with Dr. Dawson being the only doctor on call last night, we had to wait quite a while for the x-ray results on my foot.

Luckily no broken bones, only a mild sprain Nash exaggerated just now. My eyes fixate on the rise and fall of his bare, muscular and perfectly tan chest.

“Shit,” I curse under my breath, when I realize he’s caught me drooling.

I can’t help myself. The man was sculpted out of one of my favorite fantasies. This, all this muscle, Nash didn’t have when we were together. He had always been fit and athletic though he was never an athlete, only keeping in shape on the ranch with his brother’s, but now, Nash was a man and I wanted nothing more than to feel every inch of him on me, in me.

The way his lips quirk up into a sinful grin makes more than just my ankle ache. My entire body comes alive, an electric current zapping through me as he reaches a hand out to tuck a stray curl behind my ear. “Like something you see, B?”

If my face and body weren’t giving away my exact thoughts, I’d think the man could read minds, but it’s infuriating how I can’t help the way my entire being reacts to his presence, to a simple touch. I slap his hand away, shifting my gaze away from him and toward the open door of my bathroom.

“Why the hell are you in my room, sleeping in my bed, Nash?”

Nash’s hand cups my chin, forcing my gaze back to him when I try to look away as he leans in closer. His morning breath is just as captivating, and it frustrates me because I crave to kiss him to see if he tastes exactly as I remember.

“Because you asked me to,” he answers nonchalantly, and it snaps me out of the thoughts I shouldn’t have of him.

He teases me, his thumb skimming my bottom lip as his hand snakes around and cups the back of my neck to pull me in closer to him. Our lips touch, another surge of electricity sparking between us as his tongue slips out to lick his lip, grazing mine for just a second before he steps back and releases me.

Turning away from me with a deep groan, he shoves a hand through his hair, the other into his back pocket as if trying anything to keep them otherwise occupied. Contrary to what Imight have believed, he wants me just as badly as I want him, and he’s hating it.

“I would never ask you to get into my bed,” I say, knowing it’s a damn lie but too proud to admit I can’t imagine having done so last night.

Everything about yesterday were things I’d never imagined would happen. The way he touched me when I fell, using the excuse of needing to carry me to have his arms and hands so close to me, to sitting on the back of his motorcycle with my arms wrapped tightly around him. Our quick, incredibly awkward stop at my parents’ house, the trip down to the hospital, all of Crossroads has surely heard about by now. All of it was completely out of character for both of us.

Yet none of it felt out of place.

“Well you did, Bailey. Though you can relax, nothing happened. I was a gentleman. All we did was sleep.”

His playful, almost mocking tone is equally annoying and infuriating. Looking down at the shirt I’m wearing, his shirt, I’m mortified by the thoughts that must have run through his mind when he found it in my drawer.

“Were you also a gentleman when you took my dress off and…”

“Changed you into my t-shirt?” he asks, interrupting me before I can finish. I didn’t think he’d recognized it, but who am I kidding? There’s no point in denying it and trying to claim I’m wearing Jase’s shirt. He’s already figured out how pathetic I must be to have kept the shirt he gave me for over ten years. Wait till he hears about how I cried myself to sleep with it in my arms after he left.

I can't handle the knowing smirk he gives me next. The cocky grin which appears when I remain silent and he realizes he’s right. I kept his shirt for a decade as I pined for the boy who broke my heart. The boy I thought I loved. Instead of hating himas I should have, I continued to keep the reminders of him that caused me pain. Anything to not forget him and the insignificant moment we had together. Insignificant to him, but to me, it had meant everything.

The silence between us becomes overwhelming as our gazes never stray from one another. My bedroom is dimly lit, just a sliver of light coming through the bottom of the window, under the blackout curtain that’s hung over a small table against the wall. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes as he continues to stare at me in this unruly state.

My hair’s a complete mess, my makeup surely smeared across my eyes, while my legs, though completely bare except for the bandage around my foot, aren’t making me look sexy in the slightest. As a young girl, I’d have been mortified if Nash ever saw me like this.

I never used to wear much makeup—nothing more than a bit of blush or mascara over my natural complexion, but you bet my hair was always perfectly combed and I was dressed to impress. Even the night I’d snuck out to see him, I’d made sure I looked my best.

Nash’s gaze darkens the longer it lingers on me and I almost mistake it for desire, but there’s just no way I look desirable in the slightest right at this moment.Though, maybe it's the fact I’m wearing something of his?

This version of Nash seems he’d see that as staking his claim on something he believes belongs to him. In this case—me. Of course, that’s what he thinks—that I’ve pined for him. It might have been true, but I promised myself I would move on and forget him, and just because he’s back, doesn't mean I’ve forgotten.

Curious, I decide to test my theory, telling Nash something I’m sure he’d never have guessed. “What, are you surprised I kept it for ten years? Wait till I tell you about how I wore it to bedfor an entire year after you left.” I can’t believe I just admitted that, but by the utter shock on his face, I know there’s no way he ever thought it was something I would say.

“Bailey…”

Panic floods me all at once when the look Nash gives me isn’t desire, nor regret—it’s pity. Here I am, the most vulnerable I’ve probably ever been in front of him, and I can’t stand the look of pity he’s giving me, like I’m some sad little girl who’s still living in some fantasy with a boy who never promised her anything. Not with a man who forgot about her the moment he left.

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