Page 21 of The Stud Next Door (Frisky Business 3)
By my fifth shot, I’m officially drunk. My tolerance is at an all-time low, thanks to months of only drinking the occasional beer or glass of wine.
After arranging our rideshares, Hayes shares a car with me, which is more of an effort on his part to make sure my drunk ass makes it safely to my front door. I struggle to stay vertical during the car ride. When our driver pulls up to my house, I pull myself upright.
“That was fast,” I mumble, smoothing my hair back with one hand.
Damn, I even smell like I’m drunk. A real class act, Connor.
“You knocked out for a bit there.” Hayes chuckles, his gaze trained on his phone. He’s probably texting Maren all about my reckless night of drinking. “Need me to get you inside? Dismiss ‘the nanny’?”
I shoot him a lazy glare and open my door. “I got it. Thanks.”
“See you tomorrow, bud.”
I shut the car door, swaying a little as I watch the headlights disappear down the road.
It takes me roughly ten years, but I manage to unlock the front door, kick off my shoes, and wander to the kitchen. Leaning against the fridge, I force myself to drink two full glasses of water. Since stumbling through the door, I’ve made some noise, so it strikes me as strange that Jessa hasn’t poked her head in here yet.
Something could be wrong, though I sincerely hope not. Maybe she just fell asleep? It is pretty late.
The lights in the hall are dark. Marley’s nursery is dark too, except for the single star-shaped night-light on the shelf. I tiptoe into her room and gaze down into the crib.
Marley’s sleeping peacefully, all warm and cozy in her little monkey onesie. She’s so fucking cute that I have to shove down the urge to scoop her into my arms and press a kiss to her cheek. But I leave her be, knowing it’s not worth waking her up and spending the rest of the night comforting a grumpy baby.
The guest room across the hall is also dark, the bed untouched. I know Jessa would never leave Marley alone and just go home . . . so the question is, where the hell is she? It’s then that I notice my bedroom door is slightly cracked open, a sliver of light cast onto the hallway carpet.
As I give it a gentle push, the door opens silently. And there she is, curled up on my bed, her limbs tangled in my favorite gray cotton blanket.
A soft-cover book rests on Jessa’s chest, rising and falling with each slow breath. In the lamplight, her eyelashes cast dark shadows across her freckled cheeks, and all those gorgeous mahogany curls spill over my white pillows.
I don’t know how long I stand there like a creep, staring at her, but I know I could watch her for hours. She’s beautiful like this, with all the formalities and professionalism forgotten. Even more beautiful because she’s in my bed.
I try to be as quiet as I can, softly padding across the floor to kneel next to the bed.
Damn. She looks so peaceful. I really don’t want to wake her. But even my inebriated brain knows that I have to.
When I caress the back of her hand with my fingertips, Jessa blinks awake, her eyes heavy with sleep. The smile that sprawls across her warm, rosy lips is so easy and trusting that it makes my chest tighten.
“Hey there,” she murmurs, tilting her head to get a better look at me.
“Hey,” I say softly, smiling genuinely for the first time all night.
She chuckles. “Sorry for stealing your bed.” Her voice is raspy with sleep and, if you ask me, sexy as hell. “I thought I’d hear Marley if she woke up since you share a wall. Didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
“That’s okay.”
She props herself up on one elbow and drags her fingers through her bed head. The strap of her tank top hangs loosely on her shoulder, and it’s harder than usual to wrench my gaze away. I watch as two fingers tuck under the strap, lifting it back to its rightful place, only to remain on her shoulder and caress the sleep-warmed skin there.
Fuck. Those are my fingers, not hers.
“Thank you,” she whispers, the words falling from her lips like melted butter as her blue eyes search my face for something like clarity.
You won’t find that there, Jessa. All you’ll find is a tormented man, telling himself to take his damn hand away.
But I don’t. And she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she leans into the touch, and now my whole palm rests on her arm, my thumb rubbing circles against the freckles dotting her shoulder.
“Did you have a good time tonight?” she asks, biting her lip in a way that has me leaning into her against all logic.
