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Cam Crawford’s staying at my house. In the only other room in the house, the bedroom next to mine.
Oh. My. God.
It’s my high school dream come true.
Except now it’s a freaking nightmare because I’m living with my dad at almost thirty years old.
FML.
“Go on, scoot.” My dad pushes Cam toward the front door and I stand on wobbly legs, trying not to sway on unsteady feet.
I follow Cam’s every move, staring at his broad back and very fine ass as he bangs out the front door.
“Sloane? You okay?” Dad interrupts my ogling, and I tear my gaze away from Cam’s retreating backside.
“Uh, yeah. Of course. How long’s he staying?” I hook a thumb in the direction of the driveway. “Like, a week or two?”
“I don’t know. Might take longer to get him back on track. You okay with that?” He narrows his eyes at me and I swallow hard.
“Sure. Totally fine,” I say, forcing a tight smile. I mean, I should be fine with it. A gorgeous pro football player staying in the room next to mine, with only a thin wall separating us.
And I probably would be fine if I hadn’t sent that drunken email.
Maybe he never read it.He’s not acting like he read it, at least. And now he probably doesn’t have access to his team email anymore. I should just forget about the email, pretend it never happened.
The door swings open and Cam reappears, duffel in hand. Good gravy, the man is gorgeous. His wide, muscled frame fills up the entire space, golden rays of sunlight streaming around him. I can practically hear a romantic swell of music announcing his arrival as we lock eyes across the living room.
“Sloane will get you settled in. We usually order pizza on Friday night. Does that work for you, son?”
“Sounds great, thanks.” Cam nods his approval and I force myself to move, ignoring the frantic flutter of possessed butterflies lurching around my stomach.
Cam looms behind me as we walk down the dim, narrow hallway. My bedroom’s at the end, the guest bedroom adjacent, with a shared bath on the opposite side of the hall. The house was built in the mid-sixties, before the concept of the en suite became a thing.
“Guess we’re going to have to pull straws to see who gets first shower,” I joke, tipping my head at the small aqua bathroom.
“Nah. You can always have it. It’s your house and all.”
Heat rushes into my cheeks and I open my mouth to correct him—I mean, technically it’s my dad’s house and I’m a visitor here too—but then slam my lips shut before I say something pathetic. I’ve already spilled my tale of woe—no need to keep reminding him of my current solo status.
“Here’s the extra bedroom.” I sweep my arm at the door, ushering him into the room that’s an exact replica of mine, just flipped with no window. “It’s nothing fancy, probably not like your digs in Chicago?—”
“It’s great, thanks.” Cam drops his duffel on the ground, his hulking frame taking up most of the space. My eyes flit to the bed and my heart flip-flops.
Stop it, Sloane. The man’s at an all-time low and all you keep thinking about is jumping his bones.
“Uh—I’ll go get the sheets and make the bed up for you.”
I scurry out of the room, my entire body flaming.
This is going to be the longest summer of my life.
Grabbing the first set of sheets I lay hands on, I hustle back to the bedroom. Only when I unfold the sheets and start stretching the cotton over the mattress do I realize I’m staring at the smiling faces of the Jonas brothers in all their boy band glory.
OMG.
And why the fuck does my dad still have these sheets?
“Is that the Jonas brothers?” Cam asks, his voice tipping up.
