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“Take me to my room, Sawyer.”
Day 5
The Bahamas
Gwendolyn
My head is killing me.
It makes it hard to get my bearings when I can hardly open my eyes because the sunlight is streaming in, and ow.
What I remember from last night is 1) lots of drinking, 2) feeling inspired to write, 3) having a decent time with Sawyer, and 4) literally nothing else. The hard corner poking into my side confirms that I fell asleep writing, and thank goodness my laptop didn’t tumble off the sofa bed in the middle of the night and break. The empty cocktail glasses on the nightstand come into focus, which further explains the headache, because I lost track of how many drinks I had before I got back to my room.
I sink deeper into the bed and try to pull the comforter over my head, but there’s resistance. Suddenly there’s an arm next to me, and oh my God did I murder someone in my drunken stupor?
Peering out, I’m relieved to not see a corpse, but consider it might be better than the alternative, which is Sawyer Dawson half covered and half clothed. In my bed. Next to me. Also half-ish clothed, because my pajama shorts barely cover anything.
Sawyer stirs, then startles awake when I shove him.
“What are you doing here?” I hiss. Anything louder would not be in my hangover’s best interest.
“Good morning to you, too,” he mumbles, stretching an arm over his head. From what I can tell he’s wearing a white T-shirt and boxer briefs that leave very little to the imagination, and when paired with my overactive imagination, well…
Heat rushes to my face and I duck under the covers as much as I can. “Good morning. But also, what are you doing here?”
His expression is worried but amused. Like he’s concerned about me but also knows I’m okay, so he’s not too concerned. “You really don’t remember?” I shake my head (in hindsight, a mistake). “Not surprising. Okay so last night, you were found by a group of fishermen, just floating in the ocean. There’s a chip that was extracted from your back—”
“Okay, funny guy. I know I’m not Jason Bourne, so how about you explain why you’re here and why I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus.”
The concern vanishes and the amusement on his face takes center stage. “I’m here because you begged me to stay.”
“Bull.”
“It’s true. You wouldn’t even let me leave to get pajamas. Hence…” he looks down at his body, and I try so hard not to follow his gaze.
Flashes of last night come back to me. Drinking. Laughing. Sawyer’s hand in mine. Leading him here. “A gentleman would have slept in his suit. Or on the floor.”
“All of a sudden I’m a gentleman?” he mocks. “Also, you wouldn’t let me, Gwen. You said you wanted me here. And I can’t sleep in my suit, because we still have another formal night, and you said it was no big deal anyway.”
I hear the words, but I’ve stopped processing anything after ‘Gwen.’ It was one thing before, out in the busy ship, surrounded by people, but it’s entirely different here, in my bed.
“Don’t worry,” he continues, “nothing happened.” He flips the comforter aside to show that I am under the sheet and he’s on top of it. Okay, this guy has some gentlemanly qualities.
“Why did you let me drink so much?” I groan, giving up on the other fight.
His response, a scratchy, early morning laugh, is possibly one of the sexiest sounds I’ve ever heard. Then he speaks, and it gets even sexier: “You don’t strike me as a woman who needs or wants permission, Gwen. You just do. It’s one of the things I like about you.”
Something happens. Down there. Muscles move and roll like they’re telling me to have him right here, right now, because I’ve never had a man talk to me like that before. I haven’t even written a man like that before. We’ve already kissed, anyway, so it would be so easy (morning breath be damned) to do it again, tangle my fingers in his hair, let him show me what else he likes about me.
“Also,” he says, and I notice that his cheeks are red, like he didn’t mean to say that last part out loud. “You said you wanted to write the Heming-way, and who am I to question your creative process.”
There’s a shuffling sound, movement, and I hear my name. It’s Gram, awake and either ready for breakfast or checking to make sure I didn’t fall overboard.
“Shit!” I pull the covers over Sawyer’s head and plop a pillow over him for good measure, then I flop to my other side and prop myself up on my elbow, making myself as big as possible, trying to hide this mountain of a man beside me. “Don’t say anything!” I warn him through clenched teeth.
“I’m surprised you’re up,” Gram says as she closes her bedroom door behind her. She glances my way but largely avoids my gaze. “I was just heading to breakfast. Did you want anything?”
I shake my head, instantly regretting it again. My brain and my eyes are running at different speeds, and it takes a moment for my vision to clear. “I’m good.” I’m so not good right now.
