Page 78 of The Invitation
“What?” He lifts his brows, and he picks up his towel.
“If we were recording right now, I’d tell you that I think it’s freaking adorable how much you love your dog. It’s really endearing—and unexpected.” I shrug. “But since we’re not filming, and I don’t have to pretend to be nice, I’ll say that it’s weird seeing you think of someone outside yourself.”
He fights a grin. “Yeah, well, you need to be more worried about the fact that you have a soaked, white T-shirt on than how much I love my dog.”
My attention drops to my chest. Sure enough, I’m giving him a show.Again.
“Good thing you’ve already seen them once, I guess,” I say.
He rummages through his bag again and pulls out a long-sleeved shirt.
“Was one of your top search terms‘Things to put in a backpack’?” I ask.
He tosses the shirt at me. “You’re welcome.”
“What else do you have in there?”
“Jerky. Nuts. Water.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Any candy bars? Mints? Gum?”
He wrinkles his nose back at me. “No. No junk food.”
Red flag.“How long do you think we’re going to be stranded here?” I ask.
“The tornado warning is until four o’clock, but Tate said the storm is supposed to stick around all night.”
“All night? Are you kidding me? Did you even look at the weather this morning?”
“Did you?”
“Ididn’t plan the date.”
He strips himself of his shirt, displaying his bare chest and rock-hard abdomen in plain sight.
My God.
“Well,I didplan the date,” he says, “but I don’t claim to be a pseudo-meteorologist, either. The sky looked clear when we left.”
I should say something, but I’m apparently unable to come up with a quick retort and stare at his thick shoulders and the way they slope from his neck to his arms at the same time.
He kicks off his shoes and socks. “We should grab some content here. How often do you get trapped in a cabin on a date?”
My mind immediately goes to X-rated content, and my cheeks heat.
Ripley drops his shorts to the floor.That doesn’t help.He stands in front of me wearing a pair of black boxer briefs—and nothing else.
The storm rages on outside the cabin, and a small storm begins to stir inside me, too.
His thighs are muscled, stretching the fabric around them. The ratio from his shoulders to his waist is perfection. Lines are cut into his groin, directing attention to the bulge in his briefs, and I try to throttle the dizzying current racing through me.
“What?” he asks, smirking. “Do I have something on me?”
He runs his hands over his chest as if inspecting himself for a blemish. My gaze follows the movement, moving from his pecs to his shoulders, and then down to his waistband.
His eyes hold a maddening touch of arrogance, which is enough to snap me out of my daze.
Two can play this game, pal.
