Page 66 of Heart Strings & Hotlines
My tongue sticksto the roof of my mouth, and it takes three tries to swallow. If this is a hangover, I seriously hope it was worth it.
Blinking, I take inventory of my body. I actually don’t feel terrible, so at least I know I didn’t accidentally drink a bottle of wine while watchingBelow Deckand pretending to be a yachtie again.
I pull back the covers that I’ve somehow managed to tuck under every inch of myself. What the…
Is this a man’s shirt? Lifting the collar to my nose I inhale, and a mixture of excitement and dread fill my gut. I recognize this scent. Under the distinct odor of sickness that lingers is Thane.
He smells like ocean and leather with a hint of clean laundry.
Why am I wearing Thane’s shirt?
It’s dark in my room, but the sun is peeking through my blackout curtains. I have no idea what time it is, and the last thing I remember doing is visiting that terrible nurse practitioner.
Oh.
Right.
Flu and strep throat.
It still doesn’t explain why I’m wearing Thane’s shirt, or who dressed me in it.
That tendril of excitement sends electric currents from my fingertips to my toes. Did Thane put this on me? Oh God. I always wear granny panties when I’m sick, did he see those?
Wait. No way should he have seen me naked or in granny panties. My head spins as I swing my legs over the edge of the bed.
“Where the fuck are you going?”
The gravelly bear voice comes from my floor, and I scream and jump onto the mattress. My arms immediately go into some sort of self-defense stance, while I try to steady my legs on the squishy mattress.
A giant shadow springs from the floor, and I panic. My arms swing wildly while I attempt to ninja-kick the intruder, but I lose my balance. Strong arms wrap around me, pulling another shriek from my lungs right before Thane’s masculine scent envelopes my senses.
“Thane? What the hell are you doing in my bedroom?”
“Stop hitting me.” His arms crush me against him. Oh. There’s a slight disconnect between my brain and my limbs. Logic said Thane while my body was still fighting an intruder.
Wait. No. Heisthe intruder. But I do stop hitting him.
“Why were you creeping around on my floor?”
He pins me to his chest—his bare chest, with one arm—leans us heavily to the right, and flips on my bedside light.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust.
Tiny cups are lined up on my dresser. A box of tissues, Gatorade bottles, a thermometer, throat spray, and an old teacup sit on my nightstand.
On the floor are blankets I don’t recognize, laid out as a makeshift bed.
What in the ever-living hell is going on?
“Are you sleeping on my floor?”
“Yes.” His breath shifts my hair around my face. Oh Jesus. He’s still pressing me into his naked chest.
There are so many questions to ask, and I’m not sure which is more pressing.
“Ah, you can let me go now.” My voice crackles, and he stares down at me.
“Are you going to get back in bed and not fight me?”
