Page 62 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
She stirs against me, making a soft sound that goes straight to my groin. “Hm?”
My mouth goes dry. I’m dying to answer her with a soft kiss. I would do anything that she asked at this moment.
Looking down at her lips, lipstick smudged and rubbed off, I bite my lower lip.
What the fuck is wrong with me all the sudden? Why can’t I tear my eyes away from Juliet’s mouth?
“Mmph... what the...”
Her eyes snap open. She takes a few moments to figure out where she is and who she’s touching. The second she realizes our position, she bolts upright like someone set her on fire.
“Shit!”
I look over at her, still groggy but definitely amused by her panic. “Morning, Monroe. Sleep okay? You seemed comfortable.”
She scrambles backward, dragging the comforter with her and leaving me exposed to the cool morning air. “You didn’t... I mean, we didn’t...”
“Nah. You just crawled over here on your own and used me like a body pillow.”
Her face flames red. “I did not.”
“Pretty sure your leg was over mine. And your hand? Yeah. That was adventurous.”
She makes a strangled noise that’s somewhere between embarrassment and outrage, then dives off the bed, grabbing for her jeans like the cottage is on fire.
“Relax,” I say, stretching deliberately so she gets a good look at what she was just pressed against. “I won’t tell anybody that you had a moment of weakness.”
“What?!” She launches a pillow at me, her cheeks still glowing pink. “You’re the worst, Huxley. The.Worst.”
I can’t help but laugh.
“You keep saying that, but here you are... still thinking about my abs.”
“I’m thinking about how fast I can get out of this cottage before you say something else that makes me want to drown myself.”
I stretch again with a smirk, hands behind my head. “Race you to breakfast?”
She huffs and disappears into the bathroom, slamming the door harder than necessary.
I lie back, still smiling. “Still got it,” I mutter to myself.
When she emerges, she’s back in full armor. Jeans, a cream sweater, makeup perfectly applied. But I notice she’s switched lipsticks from the deep red she wore last night to something lighter. And her eyes keep darting to my mouth when she thinks I’m not looking.
I want her. Of course I do. I’ve wanted her since college, if I’m being honest with myself.
The second I laid eyes on Juliet Monroe, my brain got rewired in some essential way. I’ve never thought that she was anything less than a perfect ten.
But it’s more than that.
That’s what makes this dangerous. Because want is one thing. I can handle want. It’s straightforward, manageable. It’s the need that messes me up. And lately, when she’s not in the room, it feels like something’s missing.
She hurries out of the room, leaving me to shower and get changed alone.
Morning chaos greets me when I finally make it to the main lodge. Someone’s burning bacon in the chef’s kitchen, filling the air with smoke and the sound of fire alarms. Moose is outside barefoot, punting a football across the lawn in what I assume is his version of a morning workout. Jessa’s in the kitchen mixing hangover smoothies that are the color of algae and probably taste worse.
No way am I getting talked into tasting one of those.
I see Juliet looking sadly at a coffee urn. When I sidle up next to her, I look at the empty mug in her hands.
