Page 44 of The Pretender

I clap my hands together. “Alright, let’s move this little disaster to my bedroom.”

I jump up with a lot more pep in my step than earlier. My plan is finally coming together. “Are you coming?” I ask, brushing past Vee.

She eyes me for just a second, staring.

“What?” I look down at my clothes. “Is there something on my face?”

When she doesn’t answer, I add, “Do you need a drink to get through one dance with me?”

I meant it as a joke, but my stomach churns (probably from the salmonella) waiting for her response.

Finally, she shakes her head and grabs the tripod. “No, I’m fine. Come on.”

A little anticlimactic but whatever, she didn’t leave or slap me, so I’m calling that a win.

Nodding, I lead the way to my room where the bed has clean sheets, thanks to Vee and her guilt and, sometimes, sweet heart. I move her chair away from the mirror where she had watched her dumbass horror movie. In my dreams people were screaming, but it wasn’t because they were dying.

Vee side-eyes me and frowns.

“You got to sit in it for two hours,” I say. “Don’t act like you’re already going through withdrawals.”

She doesn’t answer me; instead, she flips me off and begins setting up the tripod. I take the few minutes to re-watch the videos that show the dance steps, so I’m not the one fumbling around while we try this.

“I think I should be in pajamas when we do this,” she randomly says.

“Okay.” I shrug. “Doesn’t matter to me what you wear.”

She hangs her head and pauses her adjustments to the camera. “I’m just saying if I wear one of your shirts or some ofyourpajamas, it’ll look like I spent the night with you.”

Oh.

Oh.

“Uhhhh. Okay. Sure.”

My mind has literally been stunned into only producing simple words. She needs to wear my shirt or my pajamas. This is a big step for me. One, I don’t let women sleep over and two, I never give them a memento to take home with them. They come in with clothes; they can certainly leave with them. The last thing I want to do is buy a bunch of nice shit that walks out with my one-nighters. I’d be a broke man. And besides, I haven’t had a woman even see the inside of my bedroom since Vee’s conniving ass dropped that prank on me two months ago.

“I know it’s weird, considering—” she motions between us, “—our history, but you can give me something old and burn it after I take it off. Just a t-shirt will be fine. It should cover most of my legs.”

This is not going down at all like I planned. Is it too much to ask for a win today? All I wanted was to see Vee’s shitty dance moves and make her feel just an ounce of the awkwardness that I’ve felt since she’s been here taking care of me. Which is her fault since she just had to have Juan’s toilet bowl tacos.

I rake a hand through my hair. “I don’t think a t-shirt will work,” I muse, my hand moving to my lips, worrying the bottom one while she’s bent over the tripod, finding the best angle.

“It’ll be fine,” she says, dismissing my concerns without so much as a glance. “I’ll keep my shorts on.”

That still won’t help. My dick agrees. When a man sees a woman in his clothes, it sparks this sort of territorial feeling. Now, I don’t know this personally, since I refuse to try it, but recently Maverick did, and he said the saying is unequivocally true. I’m not for feeling territorial and all alpha crazy over a female, especially Vee, the frog saving, horror movie junkie with the mouth of a teenage boy.

“Do you not have a t-shirt under your hoodie?”

Vee lifts her head slowly and catches my gaze in the mirror. “It’s not long enough. Do you want me to wear underwear and a shirt that hits at my hips in the video or your t-shirt?”

An evil grin pulls onto her face, and she adds, “Or I can go back to my place and pull out my flannel pajamas.”

My lip curls.

“I’m sure your fans would be shocked to see your girlfriend all decked out in her winter wear alongside her boo in his flannel bottoms.”

She’s hilarious but knows me well.

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