Page 40 of Smooth Sailing
She stepped around Max, making her way to the kitchen. Grabbing her phone from the counter, she dialed her brother’s number and put it on speakerphone. After Max told her not to flirt or hit on him, the last thing she needed was for him to think she’d set this up like some rom-com.
Felix answered right before her call went to voicemail. “How was your drive, sis?” he asked.
“Fine, but you said Abigail’s place had two bedrooms.”
“Yeah. One, the main. The other was converted to a kick-ass office. What’s the problem?”
“What’s the problem?” she squeaked. “Why in the world did you think I wanted to share a room with my business partner?” She couldn’t say, bedroom. The word would conjure up her recent dark dreams of the man who’d followed her into the kitchen, looking as panicky as she felt.
“You two aren’t fucking?” Felix sounded truly perplexed, and Paloma wanted to sink into the pretty hardwood floors.
“No! He’s my business partner.”
“I thought he was both. My bad. I totally thought you had a little pleasure going with your business.” He chuckled. “Well, after these two weeks of sharing a bed, you might.”
“Asshole,” Paloma laughed-groaned and hung up. She looked at Max. “This is my mistake. Tomorrow I’ll find a hotel for myself. That way only one of us has to do the drive. I’ll sleep on the couch tonight.”
They glanced toward the living room. The couch looked perfect for reading a book or watching TV but not for sleeping. It was deep but not long, and the sides were impossibly high.
“We’re adults. Let’s share the bed,” Max said. “The thing’s huge. We’ll be fine.”
She turned away, pretending to examine the couch, but was trying to hide the flush creeping up her neck. She had to get it together. It was sleeping. In the same bed. With Max.
Images flashed unbidden through her mind: his strong arms, the way his shirt sometimes clung to his chest. Or like the notorious afternoon at the pineapple house—without his shirt. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the memory was burned into her.
She opened her eyes and turned to Max, hoping her face didn’t betray the turmoil within. “You’re right,” she said, proud of how steady her voice sounded. “We’re adults. We can handle this.”
It was one night. She could handle sleeping next to him for one night. It was no big deal.
Chapter Nineteen
October 11th, 6:05 a.m.
Sleeping next to Max was a big deal.
Paloma sat on the balcony with her laptop and a cup of steaming coffee, watching the sunrise, her insides a horny mess. She had to find a hotel for one of them, or she wouldn’t survive the next two weeks.
The cool morning air helped clear her head, but every time she closed her eyes, flashes of the previous night danced behind her eyelids. Max’s warm body next to hers, his scent tempting her. Despite her best efforts, she drifted to the evening before, replaying the events that led to her current state of frustration.
Everything had been fine until he’d stepped from the ensuite bathroom. He’d walked out with wet hair, a worn T-shirt, and gray sweat pants—gray sweat pants.
“Are you kidding me?” she groaned.
He stopped walking. “What?”
“I’m wearing these.” She waved a hand at her loose-fitting, navy cotton sleep pants and tank top. She’d even put on a wireless bra. “And you have on that. I should change into lingerie.”
He grinned. “You won’t hear me complain, but why?”
“Come on, have you scrolled any social media lately? Gray sweatpants are catnip to women.” And wow, his were doing him all sorts of justice.
His grin widened. “I could take them off.”
She tapped her chin. “Depends. Are you wearing old tighty-whities where the elastic’s shot and there are stains?”
He snorted. “No, sorry. Boxer-briefs.” He wrinkled his nose. “Without stains.”
“Fine, whatever,” she pouted, closing her laptop. “I’m going to shut off the light and pretend you’re in an ugly onesie. Or a set of my dad’s pretentious silk PJ sets.”
