Page 109 of Unmanageable

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30

Scottie

“You are an animal, Finnian O’Connell.”

I just left a piece of my dignity on a fifty-year-old oak table.

My lower lip is still throbbing, swollen and hot where I bit down to keep from getting us banned from the library.

Cash just stands there by the driver’s side door, his hands tucked loosely into the pockets of his gray shorts.

He is grinning like an absolute lunatic.

The dark gold-flecked circles of his eyes are bright, satisfied with himself, his mouth split into a wide, cocky smirk that makes me want to drop kick him.

“The rules were explicit, Scottie-girl,” he rumbles. “Absolute silence. First one to make a sound loses. You made a sound.”

“I made a sound because you were putting your hands on me under a public desk!” I jab a finger into the center of his chest. “That woman looked like she benched cars for a hobby, Cash. If she had come around that corner and seen your goalie fingers under my skirt, I would have… I don’t know.. died.”

“But did you get the room booked?” he asks, his grin widening until the small, familiar crinkles appear at the corners of his eyes.

“Yes, I booked the room,” I snap.

I try to hold the glare, but the ridiculous picture of him standing there with a triumphant smile cracks my defense.

A tiny, involuntary laugh slips out of my throat. “You are horrible.”

“I’m the best client you’ve got,” he says, his hand coming out of his pocket to catch my wrist, his thumb pressing firm against my tattoo for one quick, hot second before he opens the passenger door for me. “Get in. Let’s see this room you found.”

The drive to the hotel takes forty-five minutes and by the time I guide us through the entrance of the hotel, the sun is dropping low, casting long streaks of red across the pine trees.

It actually is a nice place—hardwood floors, a stone fireplace in the lobby, and an outdoor hot tub that smells faintly of cedar wood and chlorine.

We get to the room on the third floor. The door clicks open to reveal a massive king bed with crisp white linens and a small balcony overlooking the valley.

I look at the single expanse of white sheets, and my brain does a small, belated calculation.

In the absolute blur of adrenaline, shaky knees, and sheer distraction under that library desk, my standard booking protocol had completely gone out the window.

I’d only clicked for one room. One bed.

“We can fix it,” he says quietly. “I’ll call down for a cot. Or I’ll take the floor.”

I blink at him. “The floor?”

He shrugs, like it’s the most natural, obvious thing in the world, unbothered by his own comfort. “I’d rather have a sore back than have you staring at the ceiling all night.”

The offer hangs in the air, so immediate and entirely without demand, and suddenly it hits me.

I hadn’t even thought about it.

The last time we’d ended up with one bed, my body had stayed locked in a panic, every muscle braced for danger. But this time? My mind hadn’t even flickered toward fear.

The old, stubborn survival instincts hadn’t even bothered to wake up, because somewhere along the way, my body had already decided he was home.

“No,” I say. “I’m okay.”