“What things?”
“Relationships.” Her shoulders slumped. “Paige can’t make ‘em last, and I can’t figure out how to start them.”
He filed that tidbit back for future consideration. A gust of cool air blew through, nipping at the back of his neck. He’d asked enough questions for one night. They should go inside. He flipped his hands over to link with hers.
“Can I walk you to your room?”
“Okay.” She blinked. “Wait, no.”
A flash of anger inexplicably shot through him. “Why the hell not?”
“I left my key in Felix’s room.” She played with his fingers, and again, his stomach twisted. He tightened his hold to still her movement. He needed to keep his concentration. “We were playing Playing House.”
Oh. The pieces started to click together for Wilder. Felix had told him about the drinking game he invented during the first season of the show. It was his way of supporting Wilder while also saving face with his friends by making it into a way for them to get shit-faced. Wilder had laughed when he’d found out about it. Waverly hadn’t found it so funny. She never liked the idea of people laughing at them, even if it was all in good fun.
In this instance, Wilder wasn’t laughing. He had no qualms about the two of them playing the game. Heck, he was glad they got along. But he did have a problem with Felix getting Bailey trashed, then ditching her outside the motel so he could hook up with her sister. He didn’t begrudge his friend a shot at sex, but not under these circumstances.
“Do you want me to get your key?” Barging into Felix’s room would give Wilder a chance to knock some sense into him. He’d also be sure to give his dear old friend a solid ass-chewing on how a man was supposed to treat a lady in between punches.
“No.” She slipped a hand loose and brushed some stray hairs from his forehead. “We don’t need to see whatever is going on in that room. Trust me.”
So much for his plans to beat his best friend to a pulp. “How are we going to get your key?”
She shrugged. “It won’t matter if we get it.”
A sharp pang throbbed behind his eye. He could practically feel his brain cells evaporate the longer he talked to drunk Bailey.
Even though her answer would probably only leave him with more questions, he had to ask. “Why not?”
“Because I can’t find my room.”
Kaboom. That did it. That finally blew the last of his brain cells. “Why can’t you find your room?”
“Because the hallways turned into mazes.”
He wasn’t going to bother following up on that one. They were beyond logic and sense. He’d just have to figure something else out. He could always get a spare key from the front desk. They rented out enough rooms there. The clerks should be willing to give them a spare—and directions to her room—without making a big deal of it. Then again, he might not have enough pull to keep the staff from spreading the word that Wilder Aldrich took a drunken woman back to her motel room.
There was a solution to all of this staring him straight in the face. He could just let her crash in his room for the night. It wouldn’t be a big deal. She could sleep on the bed, and he’d use the couch. That way he could monitor her and make sure she didn’t get sick overnight. But it wasn’t as easy as it sounded. If she stayed in his room, he’d be sleeping a few yards away from the woman who’d been keeping him up at night.
But it seemed like the only solution.
Slipping an arm around her waist, he helped Bailey to her feet. He located her shoes under the bench and held her steady while she stepped into each one. With one of her hands still gripped in his, he guided her through the sliding glass doors. He turned his face away from the front desk and kept their gait casual, hoping they didn’t draw too much attention. With any luck, the clerk would assume they were any couple coming back after a night out.
He didn’t draw a proper breath until he had Bailey safely in the room. Her eyes drooped, but she watched him closely as she removed the jacket from her shoulders. He helped her sit on the edge of the bed. She clung to his shoulders while he slipped off her shoes. There. That would help her be more comfortable. Her fingers stroked the back of his neck.
He shouldn’t. But he couldn’t resist meeting her gaze again. The amber eyes with specs of gold were studying him intently. It was like she could see straight through him—even without all of her senses. Her tongue slipped over her lips, and again, he wondered what she would taste like. The warmth of her breath on his neck, her fingers digging into his shoulders. It was almost too much to resist. Almost.
“I still want to kiss you,” she whispered.
“I know.”
Before either of them could take the next step, one they would both regret in the morning, he peeled her fingers from his shoulders and eased her back onto the bed. She curled up on her side and was asleep in seconds. Though it was another kind of torture, he couldn’t resist watching her for a while longer. She was going to feel like hell in the morning. She’d also probably be a little embarrassed when she remembered what she’d said.
He wouldn’t let her sweat it out too long. He’d tell her the truth about Waverly, which would hopefully ease some of her guilt. Not that she had anything to feel guilty about. It wasn’t a crime to be attracted to another person. If it was, he was in trouble, too.
She let out a soft snore and he chuckled.
Hell. He was in trouble no matter what. Because there was no denying that spark. And with months of work ahead of them, he could only imagine how much harder it would be to keep pretending. He didn’t want to mess this up for anyone. He also wanted her so badly he ached from wanting. But he couldn’t offer anyone more than sex. If she was a random woman from a bar, it’d be fine. She wasn’t. She was different. She was on his work team, and damn it, she was special. She deserved more. And God, he wished it were that easy.
***
She wasn’t as young as she once was. That fact was increasingly apparent as she opened her eyes to face the day. The sun. Coming in through the open blinds. It burned. The hotel walls. They were so . . . eggshell. And the paintings. The seascape and industrial building. They didn’t work together. Her stomach churned. The whole effect was disgusting. What kind of a sick person would pair those two paintings together? Their designer should be fired. And the bedspread. It was so—
Dear God. Why was she lying on top of a bedspread? Everyone knew they were one of the most germ-filled parts of any motel room. That was why she’d removed the one in her room and begged housekeeping not to replace it during her stay.
Wait a minute.
She bolted up, wincing as she scanned her surroundings. This wasn’t her room. Oh, shit. She had gotten so drunk the night before she’d actually stumbled into a stranger’s motel room. The bile rose. She sprinted to the bathroom just in time to lose the contents of her stomach.
Oh God. What was she thinking? Aside from college students and idiots, who drank that much? She wasn’t a college student, so that made her an idiot.
When at last she’d emptied her stomach, she pulled herself up to the bathroom vanity. She splashed some cold water on her face and dried it with one of the spare towels.
It was rude. The whole thing. She’d slept in someone else’s room. Defiled their toilet with last night’s pizza and tequila. And she’d capped it off by using their towels. It was a total violation of someone else’s personal space. How embarrassing.
Still a little unsteady on her feet, she walked back to the main room and found a tall Styrofoam cup and a note next to a bottle of Tylenol and a room key.
Bailey,
Take two of these, wash it down with some lemonade. Feel free to take a nap here or back in your room (I found your key).
- Wilder
P.S. Not to tell you how to live your life, but you might want to avoid playing any games involving tequila—and open concepts—with Felix in the future. It usually ends with puking.
Wilder. Of course. Mem
ories from the previous night came rushing back. They were still hazy, but she remembered going outside for some fresh air while Paige and Felix got to know each other. She remembered talking with Wilder, and—oh God—she was pretty sure she’d told him she liked him. How high school was that? Only in high school, the person you were confessing your crush to wasn’t married to your boss.
After their little chat outside, and her confession that she’d left her room key with Felix, Wilder had brought her to this room. He’d settled her into the bed—where, again, she was about 90 percent sure she’d made a pass at him—then went to sleep on the couch. She glanced around the room. It was the same setup as hers—more like a studio apartment than a standard hotel room. She wondered who was staying there. Maybe it was Renee’s. She’d said something about heading up to New York for the weekend to do some filming with Waverly.
That was probably it.
Rather than hang out as the note suggested, she picked up after herself and headed back to her room. Slipping in, she closed the door and screamed when something moved.
“Relax.” Paige held up her hands. “It’s just me.”
She placed a hand over her racing heart. “You scared the crap out of me.”
“I can tell. Where did you disappear to last night?”
Bailey shook her head. “I wasn’t up for another round of the Playing House drinking game, and I ended up falling asleep in the producer’s room.”
It wasn’t a total truth. But it wasn’t a full-out lie either. There was no need to mention the fact that she’d almost fallen asleep on the bench outside the motel. Or that the star of Playing House had rescued her from freezing to death. Or that she’d hit on him—at least twice. Because then she’d have to admit she was seriously crushing on him. She already felt like crawling under the desk in the corner of the room and dying.
The half-truth seemed to appease her. She nodded. “Yeah, I ‘played’ one episode with Felix before I had to call it quits. I just can’t drink like I used to when I was in my early twenties.”
“Who can?” Bailey gingerly curled up on the bed—which was sans bedspread, thank goodness. She waited for Paige to follow suit before beginning her own interrogation. “So, what did you do after you played the game?”
Her lips twitched. “I kind of sort of made out with Felix.”
“Just making out?”
“Yes. I wouldn’t have minded going a little bit further—”
“Like all the way further?”
“Maybe . . .” She shook her head. “But when things started to get a little . . . heated, he put a stop to it and brought me back to your room.”
“That was smart. Did you worry when I wasn’t here?”
“A little. But he told me you were fine.”
“Hmm.”
Paige’s eyes went a little hazy. “I really like him. He’s funny, and smart—”
“And super hot.”
“That too. Wait, you don’t—”
“No.” Bailey shook her head, wincing at the sharp pain that came with the movement. “I’m not interested in him.”
“So you wouldn’t mind if I see him?”
“No, but . . .”
“But what?”
She sighed. She couldn’t exactly tell her sister to go easy on the guy without starting a fight. “Nothing. Just have fun.”
“I will.”
She had no doubt. She only hoped Felix was ready for Hurricane Paige.
Chapter Ten
A day later, Bailey was still fighting off the last dregs of her hangover. Seriously, getting older sucked sometimes.
Equipped with a bottle of water, a towel, and her headphones, she dragged herself to the motel’s exercise room. She wasn’t sure if there was any science behind it, but aside from eating a double cheeseburger with fries followed by a slice of pizza and a Bloody Mary, working out was one of the better hangover remedies.
She muttered a silent prayer of gratitude when she found the exercise room empty. Even on her best days, she wasn’t much for exercising with an audience. It was probably vanity, but whenever she worked out around others, she was too busy worrying about whether or not they were judging her to put in a proper effort. She knew no one actually gave a crap about her form or speed. Knowing didn’t keep her from casting major side-eye at whoever was on the neighboring elliptical.
On a day like this one, when there was about a fifty-fifty chance she’d puke midstride, she was even more grateful for the privacy.
Grabbing the lone treadmill, she plugged in her headphones and cued up an episode of Criminal Minds. If she could get through the whole episode without dying, she just might kick those last tequila vapors out of her system.
By the time the behavioral analysis unit had scoped out the crime scene and made its initial contacts, she was up to a steady jog. Her feet pounded the belt, and her heart beat in sync with each step. With the takeout she’d been eating at night, not to mention the craft services for lunches, she should probably increase her runs from four times a week to at least five or six. She’d seen herself in the dailies, and she was honest enough to admit she cared about how well her jeans fit. Of course, there was also her health to consider. She cared about her health. (But mostly she worried about her double chin.)
Regardless of the motive, she increased the incline and speed. She held steady through most of the investigation playing out on the tiny screen. Her cooldown kicked in right about the time the team had the main suspect cornered.
“This is a good episode,” a voice called out next to her.
Unleashing a blood-curdling scream, she jumped a good six inches off the treadmill. The safety cord snapped unplugged, stopping the machine before she sailed off.
“Jesus, I’m sorry.” Wilder grabbed her shoulders to hold her steady. “I should have realized you couldn’t hear me with your headphones in.”
She pressed a palm to her still thundering heart and asked him what the hell he was doing there.
Still holding on, Wilder helped her off the treadmill and guided her to the pile of stepping blocks where she eased down to sit.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I thought you saw me come in. I’ve been here at least fifteen minutes.”
“No.” She took a few more deep breaths. “I didn’t.”
“That would explain why you didn’t wave back.” He knelt in front of her, rubbing his hands up and down her arms, soothing as he did. “I just thought you were being a jerk.”
Despite her recent near-death experience, laughter bubbled out. “No. I didn’t see you.”
“You must’ve been caught up in that episode.” He nodded toward the treadmill, where the closing scene played out. “I almost crapped my pants when I saw that one.”
“So did I.”
His eyes crinkled in humor a second, but they remained concerned. “Seriously, are you okay?”
“Yeah.” Now that she mostly had her breath back, she asked again, “What are you doing here?”
“Lifting weights.” His hands stopped their ministrations and dropped to rest on his knees. “I have a route I like to run outside—I’m not a big fan of treadmills—but I still use the gym for weight training.”
“Okay . . . but why here? Aren’t there better gyms closer to your house?” Surely he wasn’t so cheap he was using the motel instead of getting a temporary membership.
“Well . . . this is the closest gym to where I live.”
Her brows knit together. “Are you sure?”
He hesitated a moment, running a hand through his hair. Then with a sigh, he nodded. “I’m staying here, too.”
She shook her head. That didn’t make sense. “But you guys were supposed to move into the project house.” They’d rushed to finish the master bedroom and bathroom. She’d personally carried a couple of Waverly’s suitcases and cosmetic bags up the staircase.
“Waverly and Virginia did.” He swallowed hard. “But like I said, I’m living here—in the motel—for
the season.”
The seriousness on his face and his tone told her more than his words. Why would he live here while his family . . . It suddenly clicked. “Are you and Waverly separated?”
“Not exactly.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Then how exactly?”
He rose to his feet and she had to crane her neck to meet his gaze. In his eyes, she saw more than seriousness. She saw fatigue. Not the kind you got from working long hours on a job site. It was the kind that came from defeat and long-term disappointment. She recognized it from the lost and sad looks she and her sister had worn on their faces when they were old enough to realize their father was never coming back. It didn’t go away after the realization turned into resignation.
She tore her eyes away from his and hugged her knees to her chest.
Swearing to himself, he knelt down again and covered her hand, gripping onto it until she met his gaze again. “Waverly and I aren’t together. But we aren’t separated—at least not in a legal sense—because we were never married.”
“What?” Her heart stopped. “You’re pretending to be married?”
Who did that? And how could you make that work? Especially when they had a public life splashed all over a show. It wouldn’t take much for an industrious reporter to uncover the truth. She couldn’t decide what was more shocking. That they were faking it or that someone hadn’t already found them out given Wilder and Waverly’s rise to fame. Granted, their show has a niche audience, which meant they weren’t universally recognized like Jennifer Lawrence or Beyoncé. Up until last month, she wouldn’t have known who they were.
Still, it didn’t make sense. They had a loyal fan base who adored them. And not only for their designs. She could only imagine the shitstorm that would sweep the message boards when the fans eventually discovered they’d been lied to by the same people they loved. It was insane.
Unless he was lying to her now. No. He wasn’t. She couldn’t say how she knew that, but she did.
“We’ve never flat out said we were married.” He squeezed her hand again, like he was trying to press that fact into her. “That’s our workaround. We’ve never said we were married, even if it’s implied.”
Playing House Page 11
