Page 73 of Hate You More

“This isn’t a blaming situation. It’s just . . . fuck, I don’t know.” He drives a hand through his hair, and I clench again. All that muscle working—that bicep flex. “I guess proximity, our past, and sleep messed up the signals,” he says gruffly.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” I reply quickly. “It doesn’t change anything.” I cannot afford to lose my head, or anything else, to him.

His expression suddenly softens. “I don’t know about that. Seems to me we might be a couple of hornbag sleep goblins.”

A giggle bursts from me. Probably relief. I duck my head and try not to notice how the waistband of his shorts has flipped. His skin is visibly paler there and—

“Is that . . . is that a tattoo?” I squint, but he quickly flips the waistband back. “Was it a lobster?” My gaze lifts. It looked like one. A simple black line tattoo.

“It’s dumb,” he says gruffly.

“It looked cute.”

“The follies of youth,” he mutters. Is he . . . blushing?

“You could have it lasered?” I don’t know why I suggest this. He’s old enough to fix his own mistakes.

“Didn’t want to go through the inconvenience. Besides, it’s a reminder of something.”

“Something happy or sad?” He pins me with his gaze, and I feel myself reddening as I grip my pajamas tighter. “Happy, I hope,” I babble. “I hope it’s a happy memory.”

He rubs a jerky hand across his golden raspy stubble but doesn’t say anything else.

“Can we . . .” My teeth graze my lip. “Can we make a pact never to mention what just happened? Please?”

“It’s not like it changes anything.”

“No, agreed. It changes nothing at all.”

Except the bed feels way smaller than it did last night.

It also feels way more dangerous.

Chapter 20

Troy

“What are we calling this?” Hugo Lassiter, also known as Hugh, and sometimes Huge, for obvious reasons, one of the cofounders of Table, equal friend and pain in the ass, has his feet on the conference room table as I walk in the following morning.

“Stateside?” I loosen the button on my jacket and make for the coffeepot. “We usually call it Wednesday morning.” The day after I married Clara Forbes. The day I awoke almost on top of her, almost got her off, and almost embarrassed myself.

Way to go, asshole. A near third-base blowup with Clara Forbes.

If I count the tattoo, then I already embarrassed myself.

Jesus, the experience was like being throat punched back to being twenty-two years old again when dry humping Clara was the second-best thing in the world. Someone ought to bring the move back into vogue.

“Aren’t we rich now?” Hugo directs the whiny question Hannah’s way. Seated to his right, she’s currently picking apart a croissant. Hannah gives a shrug, and Hugo links his fingers behind his head, leaning back in his chair. “Surely, rich people have the choice of whether or not they want to face this hour.”

“Not if they want to stay rich,” I say. My back still to him, I’m smiling as I reminisce. Man, dry humping takes me back. I feel myself frown. What the fuck is my problem? Going back is the definition of insanity.

Oblivious to my consternation, my friends continue to bicker.

“Hugh’s confusing his life with a rich English dude’s in a piece of classic literature,” Hannah says. “Honey, you’re not a member of the Ton.”

I turn and watch her scoop out the green pistachio goo. “What the hell are you doing?”

“What does it look like,” she mutters, tapping the spoon to her plate. “Who the hell likes pistachio croissants?”