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She scrambled up and looked around. Her brain was still reorienting after that dream. She’d fallen asleep on the sofa, hadn’t she? Then why was she in bed? For one brief moment, she expected to look across the sheets and see Chris there.
The other side of the bed was empty, with the covers still turned up. Okay, so that hadn’t happened.
Was that a pang of disappointment?
Not exactly. Yes, she would hate to forget having sex with Chris, the memory reduced to a few sexy flashes of scotch, trees, and brownie batter. Still, if they did have sex, that would imply more sex was coming, and given the choice between forgetting the first time and never having a first, second, and third time…
Your publicist is waiting downstairs. For breakfast. While you stand here regretting the lack of amnesiac sex with Chris.
She reached to grab clothing… only to realize she was wearing it. Because he’d put her to bed fully dressed rather than take liberties, even innocently.
Was that disappointing?
Nope, it was sexy. Even sexier than erotic dreams of scotch and trees and—
Publicist. Late. Move!
She flew to the adjoining door, banged her fist against it… and the door opened, as if having not been properly shut. She caught one glimpse of Chris on his stomach, tangled in the covers, naked. Like totally naked, one twisted sheet covering his hip but riding up high enough to give a full cheek view—
He opened one eye and looked straight at her.
“Oh my God.” She stumbled back, smacked into the nightstand—that was going to bruise—and slammed the door. “I’m so sorry,” she called through it. “I knocked, and the door must not have been pulled shut.”
A lazy, sexy chuckle. “It’s fine. You can come in. I’m decent.”
She hesitated. Did he think he was wearing underwear? Or did he just figure the sheet covered enough? Either way, he’d given permission, right?
She pushed open the door to see him untangling the sheet, and the polite part of her wanted to back out before he realized he had nothing under it—but he had given permission, right?
He kicked aside the sheet, and then tugged down the leg of his boxers, which had ridden up with the sheets.
“Everything okay?” he asked, as he pushed the sheets aside with his foot.
She tried to answer. A little corner of her brain screamed, Publicist! Late! but the rest shushed it because Chris was lying there in his boxers, looking tousled and sexy and ripped and damn.
“D?” He stretched, muscles rippling.
Are you giving me a show, Chris? Please tell me you’re giving me a show, and not just sleepy and disoriented. Tell me you’re flirting.
He’d seemed to be flirting last night, when he’d joined her in flopping on the bed, and later, when she’d teased him about the scotch. Then Lawrence had called, damn him.
Had Chris been flirting? Was he flirting now?
Damn it, she couldn’t tell. No, the truth was that she was afraid to guess. She’d made that mistake before. Okay, fine, it’d been high school, but it’d happened twice. Cute guy being friendly, seeming to let his gaze linger extra long, finding excuses for slinging a casual arm around her shoulder or laying his fingers on her arm, her friends all saying, “Obviously he’s into you”… only to find out he was not into her. He was just being friendly, and she’d made a move and… oof. Even now, that old humiliation burned.
Was this different?
Maybe if she took another step into the room? See what happened?
His lips curved in a smile that was definitely flirty. Then he scooched over and patted the bed.
“Come sit, and we’ll order coffee.” He yawned. “Too early to get up just yet.”
Early.
Late.
Shit.
