Page 10 of My Brother's Roommate (Frisky Business 2)
Muttering something about getting another drink, I scramble toward the bar cart, needing to put some distance between us. When I return, Penelope has finished her drink.
“You want more?” I ask, settling in beside her again.
She shakes her head. “Sleepy.” Scooting closer on the bed, she curls into my side and lays her head on my shoulder.
“Just rest then.”
She nestles closer, doing just that. It’s been a long day, and tomorrow will prove to be even more challenging.
I’m not used to this—being someone’s comfort—but Penelope seems content to use me as a pillow, and I don’t have the heart to move her.
When my cell phone buzzes in the pocket of my dress pants, I shift carefully so as not to wake her and pull it out. It’s a text from Tessa.
You up?
A sinking feeling settles inside me. Even if I were home, there’s not a single part of me that’s interested in a hookup with Tessa right now.
I look down at the sleeping girl beside me, and my heart aches. I’ll never be good enough for someone like Penelope, but giving nothing more than scraps of myself to Tessa isn’t fair either. They both deserve more.
I swallow the last of my whiskey and type out a reply to Tessa.
I’m sorry, Tess. But things are over between us.
She doesn’t even bother to reply.4* * *PENELOPEThere’s only one thing more dangerous than falling asleep on top of Wolfie Cox . . .
Waking up in the same situation.
I’m happy to report that, despite the hard, tough-guy act he puts on, the man makes a shockingly good pillow. This morning, I’m feeling more well rested than I’ve felt in months. Sure, I could credit it to the high-thread-count sheets or even blame the Jameson I had before bed, but I know the truth—there’s something about this tough, grumpy man that makes me feel entirely comfortable and totally relaxed.
I’d be an anxious wreck this weekend if Wolfie weren’t by my side, supporting me through every outdoor activity and boring corporate conversation with my boss. Even if our relationship is fake, the comfort of having him here with me is very, very real.
And that fact scares the absolute shit out of me.
It’s just an act, Penelope. It’s pretend. He’s not your boyfriend. Don’t get attached.
I repeat this mantra over and over in my head as I hurry through my morning routine—a quick shower, a double coat of mascara, and I’m ready to face the day.
Wolfie, however, is still sound asleep by the time I’m done in the bathroom, soft, rumbling snores leaking from his lips. It’s kind of cute, to be honest. I give his shoulder a little shake and he growls, squeezing his eyes closed extra tight before barely cracking one open.
“What?” he grumbles, holding up a hand to block out the sun.
“Good morning, sleepyhead. It’s time to get up.”
He acknowledges me with a grunt, then shoves off the covers, and it takes every bit of self-control in my body to ignore the stiff outline of his morning wood in his gray sweatpants. As if I weren’t already having a tough time keeping my hands to myself.
He may be kinda quiet and grumpy, but the man is hot as fuck.
Once Wolfie is showered and dressed, I slip on a much comfier pair of shoes than those torturous boots from yesterday. We head for the elevators, ready to start our day with two of my favorite F words—free and food. The itinerary promised a full continental breakfast starting at eight, and I’m dying to find out if there’s a Belgian waffle in the cards for me this morning.
What can I say? I take my breakfast foods very seriously.
We step out of the elevator and walk shoulder to shoulder through the lobby, joining the dozens of familiar faces loading up their plates. The long wood tables boast all the usual hotel breakfast offerings—fruit, yogurt, and those little packages of cereal that serve as totally rude reminders of how many Cheerios are actually considered a serving.
But then I spot a Belgian waffle on a coworker’s plate and do a little happy dance, which gets a low, gravelly chuckle out of Wolfie. I’m not sure the last time I heard him laugh, and being the cause of that laughter is as good as a gold medal in my book.
While I step into line for the waffle maker, Wolfie digs into the oatmeal bar, then wanders off to scout for a seat. He only looks slightly uncomfortable navigating the tables filled with my coworkers, but he eventually finds an empty table in the back with a gorgeous view of the pond.
Perfect.
Before he sits, I watch as he shrugs off his black jacket and drapes it over the chair next to his, presumably to save it for me. It’s a small gesture, but a thoughtful one, and something about it makes the butterflies in my stomach flap their wings extra hard.
