Page 64 of Wild Hit
I blink hard and pull up the soft sheets around my chin. They stay there, because I’m a red blooded heterosexual woman and I can’t help staring. Especially because it’s the first time I’ve allowed it.
Is that dump in his trunk genetic or did he gain it with years and years of exercise? Probably some combination of both. No matter how much I worked out in my early twenties, I couldn’t develop cakes anywhere close to Miguel’s.
Poor guy, he should’ve put rules against me checking him out.
That’s the thing, though. In the course of tonight I realized how absolutely selfless he is.
Of course, seeing him interact with his daughter, her nanny, other teammates, and our friends, I already had a clear understanding that he’s a genuinely good person. But everything he’s done for me in the past three days is next level. Not only he agreed to this wild scheme with me, but he’s also thought about my needs every step of the way.
No one’s had to say it, but I know he’s the one who made sure the whole wedding went smoothly. And something broke inside of me when, even though he was absolutely destroyed by the day,he still grabbed my suitcase so I didn’t have to make any effort. When he asked Rose if he could escort her back?
Ugh, where do I nominate him for best guy award? Up there with golden retrievers, to be honest.
Here’s a big difference, though. Golden retrievers are cute. This guy is freaking hot. A stab pierces my chest—hard enough to make me gasp—made of sharp guilt. I suddenly feel terrible for the woman who is supposed to be by his side, whose role I’m usurping for my own gain.
I press my lips, but that does nothing to slow down the hot tears the pool in my eyes. Pushing the sheets away, I sit up to wipe at my face with the sleeves of my comfy sweatshirt.
I better treat him nicely too. The least I can do right now is to cover him up so he doesn’t catch a cold.
Sniffling, I hover near his bed and take in the challenge. Fortunately, he’s not fully on top of the sheets because there’s no way I can move the incredible mass of muscle that he is. Even shifting one of his legs so I can reach the sheets is a workout. My grunting doesn’t wake him up, so I guess it was true that he’s a heavy sleeper. The other leg kinda hangs out, and all the effort I have to do there is to push it over the mattress.
Finally, I bring the sheets over him and whisper, “Good night, Miguel.”
There’s no response, only a soft exhalation.
I run my sleeve over a stray tear, get back in bed, and turn off the light.
*
An alarm goes off.
I flinch but other than wishing it away, I can’t do much else about it. A string of deep words in a foreign language makes methink of a cursing man. But why would one of those be in my bedroom?
Oh.
My whole body grows stiff as a plank. The alarm finally quiets and I force my eyes to stay closed for a moment longer. I recall saying that I also don’t sleep like a feather, so it should seem believable that I can sleep through an alarm, right? It also didn’t ring for a long time. It should be fine.
Miguel yawns and slowly, I crack one eye open, the one that’s closest to my pillow as I lay on my side.
Oh,no. I shouldn’t have done that. I slam it shut.
Then a hidden part of me comes out from a corner and asks a very simple question: why not?
If I wanted to, I could plug his name on a search bar at any browser and get all sorts of pictures. Miguel in the middle of games, on ads, pictorials, and with varying degrees of dressing.
So I peek the same eye open again. He kneels on his bed, half turned away from me as he yawns into the sun that filters through the window curtains. He stretches his arms wide, purely to relieve his shoulders and not because he’s trying to show off his absurd wing span, or the way his shoulder and back muscles play with the motion.
I tuck my hand against my mouth to allow not a peep to escape. I knew he had good shoulders, I even felt them under my hands last night while we danced again. But seeing this? Leonardo DaVinci and Michelangelo would’ve killed to have such a perfect study subject. He must’ve moved enough during sleep that the sweatpants slid down, revealing the waistband of hisSPORTYunderwear that has also betrayed him a little—enough that I can see the exact point where his tiny waist ends and his pancakes begin.
That’s when I squeeze my eyes shut. I have no right to look any further, especially the moment he turns around. What if hisclothes have also slid down at the front? I would die. And then he’d notice that, and he would also die.
Shifting that big body causes inevitable noise, and I pretend like that’s what’s stirring me from sleep. I make a big show of rubbing my eyes, and he takes it as his cue to rasp out, “G’morning, Audrey. Would you like to use the bathroom first?”
That rasp also does something to me. It’s an almost physical experience.
In turn, I squeak out, “G’morning. You go ahead.”
“Okay, thanks.” He yawns again and rustling tells me he’s getting out of bed.
