Page 49 of Oh No, My Kidnapper Is Hot!

“Aha!” he declares before I can start my hunt for his firearm. He whips his considerable mass around and holds up his prize – a colorful mess of fabric in his right hand. I squint at it.

“What’s that supposed to be?” I ask.

“Your swimsuits!” he announces with a grin.

I stare at the fabric he’s holding.

“But there’s barely anything there,” I point out. Maybe he didn’t notice? Probably all clothing looks teeny tiny in his hands, so he couldn’t tell. He glances at the riot of color.

“They’re all your size,” he says. “Here, you can try them on and pick which one you want to wear.” He holds the scraps out toward me. Cautiously, I accept the offering.

He nudges me toward the bathroom when I don’t move, busy staring at the tiny bits of “swimsuits” he’s handed me.

Once I’m safely locked in the bathroom, I choose the most promising option – a purple tankini. It covers enough, I suppose, though not as much as I would like. The tankportion of the tankini doesn’t even reach my belly button, but the other swimsuits are all bikinis, so I stay in this one.

“I need a cover-up!” I call through the door.

“Open up,” Stryker’s voice calls back. I jump, startled by how close he sounds. Reluctantly, I unlock the door and crack it open to peer through.

“Did Heidi get me any cover-ups to go with these?” I ask, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice. Judging by the smile stretching across Stryker’s face, my efforts are in vain.

“She did,” he replies, his grin widening. I brighten.

“Give me!” I demand. His wicked grin only deepens, and I brace myself for whatever comes next.

“You can use this,” he says, shoving something large and black through the crack in the door. He pulls his hand back, looking frighteningly pleased with himself, and closes the door behind him. I look down at the black pile now at my feet.

Upon further inspection, I discover that it’s one of Stryker’s t-shirts, the tag reading “4XL”. Because of course it’s one of his shirts. Why would he give me one of the cute matching cover-ups I’m sure Heidi picked out for me when he could instead take the opportunity to torture me? Jokes on him, though. This shirt covers more than any cover-up would.

I slip it on quickly, reveling in the potato sack vibes. The sleeves go past my elbows, and the shirt ends mid-thigh. The material is soft, and it covers everything the swimsuit doesn’t. In short, it’s unbelievably comfortable. I decide immediately that he will not be getting it back. He can pry it out of my cold, dead hands if he wants it.

I exit the bathroom to find Stryker lounging on my bed. My knees go weak at the sight of him. He’s lying there, exuding attractive male lead energy. The problem being, ofcourse, that he isn’t a male lead – unless this book is a tragedy. I tilt my head, considering the possibility.

Oh no. Maybe itisa tragedy, and my life of terrible event after terrible event has culminated in this – the worst event of all.

My doom and gloom contemplations are cut short as my vision starts to go spotty. Stryker rushes toward me, but the spots grow larger, and my legs buckle beneath me.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” his rough voice commands. I try to, but nothing seems to happen. That can’t be good. I keep trying as the spots overwhelm my vision.

“Millie,breathe,” he repeats. Doesn’t he know I’m trying? Who asked him to come be bossy and unhelpful?

The world fades away to the sound of deep curses.

Chapter Seventeen

“What did you think was going to happen? You were laying on my bed practically naked, shoulders exposed like some kind of… of… some kind of tempter!”

He’sstillpractically naked, having chosen to make the trek to the pool in only his hiking gear – a pair of boots and the world’s smallest shorts. I have on sweatpants, a hoodie, and fur-lined winter boots over my swimsuit and “cover-up”. Because walking around in the middle of December skin out is just plain crazy.

“Ithoughtthat you’d look away. You can’t blame my clothes – or lack of – for your decisions,” Stryker retorts. I glare at the road in front of us.

Up until now, I had been winning our argument, but Stryker makes a valid point. I hate that he’s right, and I hate even more that he had to point out the wrongness of my actions for me to see how gross they are.

“You’re right,” I say stiffly. “I apologize for looking at you in a way that you didn’t want or invite. It’s inexcusable. Unforgivable. I swear to you that it won’t happen again.” I feel icky – disgusting. I’ve been the worst kind of person. He’s not an object for me to ogle. No matter what he’s done to me, nobody deserves to be treated like nothing more than a body to be viewed.

Stryker grabs my hand and pulls us to a stop.

“Now, let’s not be too hasty,” he says. My brows pull together, confused. “You can look as much as you can handle. It’s only when things start to go hazy that you needto pull back.”

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