Page 58 of Accidentally, Scandalously Yours

Her frown deepens. “Wait. I thought you were done with Phillip?”

“He’s been texting me. Feeding me bullshit about wanting me back. And before you say anything, I didn’t believe him.”

“Okay, I’ll lock your phone up. Actually, I’ll give it to Beckett in case you harass me for it.”

That makes me laugh. We both know I will absolutely harass her for it, just like we both know she’ll cave and give it to me. Beckett, on the other hand, won’t.

“There’s only one problem with that. He’s golfing until late this afternoon. Who will save us today?”

She grins as we both have what I assume is the same thought. “Poppy.”

On our way down to meet the girls at the spa, I say to Jenna, “I’m pretty sure that if I promise Poppy to always floss, she’ll give me my phone.”

“No way. That girl has strong boundaries.”

So true.

I need to learn how she sticks to her boundaries so fiercely. I feel like that would be one thousand percent more useful to me than learning about vibrations.

* * *

Poppy takesmy phone and locks it away in her room for the day. She also gives me a lecture on curating my social media after Jenna drops the info about me scrolling through Annabelle’s posts and seeing that story this morning. Jenna and I engage in a glaring match for a good minute after she shares this news with everyone. Honestly, sisters! There is such a thing as the Sister Vault of Secrets, and I need to make her aware that everything I ever tell her is firmly in that vault.

By the time I’ve endured hours, and hours, andhoursof the spa and everyone sharing far too much personal information (I am quite positive I do not need to know all the ways everyone here deals with sex during their period) and emotions (God, shoot me now, please), I need some space and time to myself. After excusing myself and promising not to wander off on my own without my phone, I head up to my room.

The hotel is super busy this afternoon and I step into a packed elevator, not paying too much attention to anything or anyone because my thoughts have moved back to the mess of my life and the fact I’m in the middle ofmaybe my first mid-life crisis but could just be the transformation from hell.

I squeeze into the elevator with a million other people. I’m jostled backward and almost lose my balance. My back collides with the chest of the person behind me and as I smell the woodsy scent that I’d know anywhere, hands grip my waist to steady me.

Bradford’s mouth brushes my ear. “It’s a shame you ditched the towel.”

I hate that his voice goes straight to my veins in a way no other man’s voice ever goes there. “Just like it’s a shame you’re bad at reading women and whether we care what you think.”

Keeping one hand on my waist, he brings the other one up to slowly sweep my hair across my shoulders. His touch is light across my back. I feel it everywhere and squeeze my eyes closed while letting the pleasure work its way through me. I should tell him to stop, to keep his hands to himself, but I don’t. I’m unable to because my mind and body have gone to war, and there’s no way my body is giving up control here.

With his mouth still to my ear, he murmurs, “You still use the same shampoo you did last year.”

I suck in a breath, and still no words come to tell him to stop.

His fingers curl into my waist as his other hand trails a line down my back, leaving a shiver in its wake. And then he removes his hands from me and turns silent, leaving me in a state ofI really hope Google has a good answer for me about the best way to murder a man.

What even was all that? And why does he think he can touch me?

I check how many floors away from mine we are. It’s in this moment I remember his suite is next to mine. In precisely ten floors we’ll be alone.

Why must he come back into my life at the exact time I’m having a mid-life crisis? I could manage him much better if I was running at full capacity.

The elevator arrives at our floor, and I don’t hesitate to exit. I walk as quickly as I can down the hallway toward my suite, doing my best to ignore the fact Bradford is right behind me.

He lets me get to my room without another word.

I fumble in my purse for my room key, my heart beating like it thinks we’re being chased by a tiger.

Shit. I drop the keycard.

Bradford doesn’t stop when I bend to pick it up. He keeps on walking to his room.

I should let him go without a word, but I prove how bad I am at making good life choices when I straighten and say, “Why are you such an asshole to me these days?”

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