Page 12 of The Problem with Perfect

Not to mention how Boyd would take it. I mean, I’d have to call him and give him a heads-up, absolutely. Make sure he knows the whole thing is a ruse.

I groan at how ridiculous it all sounds then snag a blanket from the linen closet where I’ve been standing and staring blankly for a minute or two. Hopefully, I can tuck away Boyd’s little sister into Abby’s room, let her sleep off the embarrassment of the night, and she’ll be back to her senses by tomorrow.

Pushing the door open, I’m prepared to hand over the pink and white quilt to a drunk and tired Bellamy. Instead, I nearly swallow my tongue. Bellamy is in the middle of the room in nothing but her underwear and socks, in the process of tugging her shirt over the top of her head, her tits visible through the nearly transparent lace of her bra.

I swallow thickly, my mouth going dry as my eyes trace over her body, taking in her lightly tanned skin and gentle curves, the little ways her body dips and swells. It’s her ass, though, that has me hypnotized, pert and round and covered by nothing but a tiny scrap of that same see-through lacy material.

She smiles once her shirt is off, chucking it on the floor as if she’s completed a marathon.

“Time for sleep,” she says, her voice soft.

Then she turns and crawls into Abby’s bed, that ass sticking up in the air, before she collapses and lets out an exhausted sigh.

I clear my throat and avert my gaze, reminding myself that this is Boyd’s sister.

“I’ll be down the hall. Just knock if you need anything,” I say, holding up the blanket between us, refusing to look at her again until I’ve tossed it gently over her nearly naked form.

I quickly click off the lights then stride to my own room and firmly shut the door, but when I climb back into bed and close my eyes, it’s like the outline of Bellamy’s shape is burned into my retinas. You can’t go back once you’ve seen someone in their panties. You can’t unsee them.

I groan and roll over, shoving my face into my pillow. Not once, in all my years of knowing Boyd and his family, have I ever looked at any of the Mitchell daughters with anything but a friendly gaze. Maybe an irritated one, but definitely not…this.

Whatever this is.

It firmly resolves for me that offering to help Bellamy with Connor is not something I should be doing. When Bellamy wakes up in the morning, I’ll just tell her she needs to come clean to Connor, period. Then I can wash my hands of this mess.

* * *

When I wake and glance at my alarm and see that it’s past nine, I bite out a curse knowing I don’t have time to get in a morning swim. Waking later than seven is unusual for me, but it’s not wild considering the fact that I was up for an hour in the middle of the night dealing with an emotional, drunk woman.

I roll out of bed and hop straight into the shower, hoping the rush of water against my skin will flood my system and wake me up. Eventually, when I head down into the kitchen, I’m surprised to find Bellamy up and cooking breakfast—thankfully, fully dressed.

She blushes when she sees me and gives me an embarrassed smile that says she either remembers last night or, at the very least, remembers enough to warrant the flush on her cheeks.

“Morning.” She tugs a pan off the stove and dumps a batch of scrambled eggs onto a plate. “I made you breakfast.”

I nod and take a seat at the island. “I can see that.”

“I wasn’t sure what time you go to work, so I started once you got in the shower,” she continues, setting the eggs in front of me, followed by a plate of bacon and some roasted potatoes. “I’m…”

“Don’t apologize again.”

Her shoulders droop.

“It is what it is, and I don’t doubt it will all get resolved. Soon, right?”

My eyes lock on hers, waiting for her confirmation, waiting for her to say, ‘Yes, Rusty, I’ll definitely fix it all and get everything squared away with Connor.’

But she doesn’t. Instead, she gives me a look I’m not sure I like, one that says she’s maybe thinking the exact opposite.

“I actually wanted to talk to you about that.”

I stab my fork into a potato, keeping my eyes on hers as I do, but she doesn’t take the hint. Or perhaps she just ignores it completely.

“I was wondering if there’s any way you’d consider playing along for a little bit.”

I shove the small potato in my mouth, my eyes narrowing as I chew.

“Just for a little while,” she continues. “I was thinking about it last night, and I just really think it could be a good idea.”

---