Hooked On You (Bliss Brothers Book 3)

by Amelia Wilde

  He leans in close, the heat of his breath gentle on the shell of my ear. Goose bumps. Instant goose bumps. “If the batter doesn’t rest, the pancakes don’t measure up.”

  “Measure up to what?”

  “Your expectations.”

  “I—” My brain is much. “I never knew pancakes could be so sexual.”

  He laughs. “I don’t think pancakes are sexual.”

  “What counts, then?” I know the question doesn’t make abundant sense, but in this moment, making sense is probably my lowest priority. “What counts as—”

  Driver kisses me.

  He puts one hand on the back of my neck, pulls me in close, and kisses me, his lips possessive and hungry on mine. The kiss deepens, edging into territory that might end in me naked on the kitchen island. My knees open another inch to let him get closer. I want him closer than this. I want him naked. I want me naked.

  “Driver,” I gasp. I should tell him—I should tell him before he slides the strap of my sundress down my shoulder, I should tell him before—

  There goes the strap of my sundress.

  “Driver, there are bedrooms.”

  “See?” He pulls back, blue eyes blazing. “I learn something about you every second. I didn’t know you were a bedroom girl.”

  “I could be a kitchen girl.”

  “You could be a miracle,” he says, and oh, god, I should tell him…and I can’t tell him. I can’t say anything, because he’s kissing me senseless, and then he’s taking me to bed.

  6

  Driver

  The pancake batter rests for three hours.

  We spend the first hour in Holiday’s bed, which I find strangely familiar in a way I can’t put my finger on until she rolls off of me, her head landing on the opposite pillow with a soft burst of the scent of her shampoo.

  It’s not just the clean, soapy scent that makes this feel like home. It’s the pillowcase, and it’s the sheet. The housekeeper probably cleans those, just like the housekeeper does the shopping.

  I stay in enough hotels to recognize it.

  She’s pink-cheeked and happy, her body curved toward mine as she catches her breath. A loose tendril of her hair falls across her cheek. Nothing in the world could keep me from reaching out and brushing it back, and I do.

  Her eyelashes flutter as she opens her eyes. “What are you looking at?”

  “You.”

  A sleepy smile curves the corner of her lips. “What are you thinking about?”

  I’m spent, my muscles tired, and I say the first thing that comes to mind. “You’re really not planning to stay here long, are you?”

  The smile flits away from her face, coming back as a more rueful version of its former self. “What makes you think that?”

  “You…” I trace the path of her hair back over her ear with a fingertip. “You said this isn’t how you usually live.”

  “It’s not how I usually live.” Holiday tugs the sheet over her waist, but not high enough to cover her breasts, which I consider to be another small miracle. “I’m only here for the summer.”

  Something seizes in my chest. I’ve never liked August, because it wheels by too quickly into fall. I like it better when the days are long and the sun is relentless, and no matter how early you get up, there’s always a hint of dawn on the horizon. Or there’s about to be. “What are you doing when the summer ends?”

  “I’m going to live in New York City.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah.” She looks down, her lips pursed.

  “You don’t look thrilled about that.”

  “I’m thrilled,” she says, and it makes me laugh because it’s so obviously a lie. At least it brings a smile to her face. “I’m nervous.”

  “Are you going there for a job?”

  “I’m going there to be an editor for a publishing house.”

  “And you…don’t really like editing?”

  “I don’t really like living in the city,” she admits, following it up with a nervous laugh. “I haven’t said that to anyone but my best friend.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  “You’ll have to take it with you when you leave.”

  It takes me longer than it should to realize that she’s digging, and I lean over and press a kiss to the curve where her neck meets her shoulder, feeling her melt beneath my touch. “I’m not leaving today.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Am I in your bed right now?”

  “Yes.” Holiday smiles, then tilts her face toward mine so I can kiss her again.

  We spend the second hour in her bed, too.

  I lie on my back next to her, the sheet draped over both of us, watching the ceiling fan go around in lazy circles. The fan is white, the room is white, the sheets are white. It’s almost clinical, but there are enough blue accents that it makes the whole room feel like it’s bathed in cool water.

  Or maybe that’s just me.

  “I’m so hungry,” she says, her hair spread out on the pillowcase next to mine.

  “The batter’s more than rested by now.” I move to push back the sheet and she catches my hand.

  “Just…wait.” She doesn’t need to tell me twice. I’m hungry, after two hours in bed with her, but I’ll starve to death before I force herself out from between these sheets before she’s ready. “I don’t know…I don’t know what we’re doing.”

  “We’ve had a lot of sex.” I don’t let go of her hand. “On two separate occasions now.”

  “You made me elaborate pancake batter.”

  “I did.”

  “It’s not a one-night stand anymore.”

  My breath catches in my chest. It’s not a one-night stand anymore. It’s a one-night stand and a one-afternoon stand.

  “Are you okay with that?” she asks.

  I turn over onto my side so I can see her face, but Holiday keeps looking up at the ceiling. “Are you okay with that?”

  “I’m leaving for the city at the end of the month.”

  “I’m leaving on assignment from my older brother before then.”

  She takes a glance at me out of the corner of her eye. “What would you do under…any other circumstance?”

  “This isn’t any other circumstance.”

  “What would you do under this circumstance?”

  I suck in a deep breath. The choice should be easy. The road is where I feel the most comfortable—the most in charge of my own life. Roman’s directive to get back out there and find more sponsorships should have sent me running to my house to get my car. I’ve left enough times now that I don’t even need to pack a bag.

  And yet there was the look on Charlie’s face in Roman’s office, his expression worried. He almost never looks worried. Charlie’s too busy making spreadsheets in his mind to have a human expression like concern.

  But he had one today.

  Still, all of it pales in comparison to the woman lying next to me in bed. There’s a dangerous element to how I feel about her. It would be so easy to stay here, day after day, and never make it back to the road. And then who would I be? Roman?

  I can’t be Roman.

  She’s asked me a question.

  “I would say that it’s all right to change your mind.”

  “My mind?” She turns her head, watching me. “I didn’t change my mind, necessarily.”

  “I changed mine. I thought it would be enough to spend one night with you. Now I don’t think it is.”

  “How many days would you need, do you think? To know if you wanted more days?”

  “Do you want more days?”

  She’s up from the bed in a flash, raised on one elbow, her face inches from mine. “Yes. I want more days. Whatever I said on the beach that night, whatever I…did…the next morning, before you were awake…”

  “Under those circumstances, I can’t blame you for running away.”

  “I can’t blame you for running away, either.”

  “I did
n’t run. I went to work.” I went to work in as many far-off locations as I could. I spent four full days in Arizona. I run the pads of my fingers down the outside of her arm. Part of me chafes at the realization that I’ve been in this bed for so long this afternoon. Part of me wants to get behind the wheel and drive until well after the sun sets. But more of me wants to be here to find out what

  “And I was here, waiting.”

  It’s cute, but it’s ridiculous. “You were not waiting for me.”

  “Weren’t you out there waiting for me? Isn’t that what you said?”

  “You followed me out there. I wasn’t waiting. I thought—”

  “You thought you’d signed up for a one-night stand.”

  “You are too hungry for this.” I throw the sheets off both of this and she gasps, grabbing for them. “We’re past the one-night stand now. Way past it. But hey, if it’s out of your system, then it’s out of your system and I’ll go, right now. No hard feelings.”

  This isn’t the full truth. I’m not sure if I’ll ever have feelings for Holiday that aren’t wild and raw and completely out of proportion with a one-night stand. I could swallow them, though. I could get back on the road and drive until she was nothing but a memory in my rearview mirror. I could put myself back behind the wheel.

  “Don’t go.”

  I look into her eyes for several heartbeats, the blood rushing through my veins, every muscle tensed and wanting to get closer to her. Why? Why? I’ve seen a hundred beautiful women come through the resort. A thousand. None of them has ever made me want to shut out the world, not even a little. None of them has ever made me want to stay.

  Holiday hasn’t even asked me to stay.

  Roman’s asked me to leave.

  If I’m ceding control over my life to anyone, it isn’t her.

  And yet…

  “Okay,” I agree. “I won’t go.”

  “Not today.”

  “Nope.”

  “Not tonight.”

  “No.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Depends.”

  Holiday sits up in bed, drawing the sheet closer around her. “On what?”

  I push myself into a sitting position beside her and run a hand over my hair. “On whether or not you’re still hungry.”

  She drops the sheet and crawls toward me, climbing into my lap to straddle me. “I’m so hungry.”

  “I never knew being hungry could be so sexual.”

  “Shut up,” she tells me.

  We spend the third hour in her bed, too.

  7

  Holiday

  Once, when I was in college, I overheard two women on a bus talking about how hot they thought their husbands were when they were pregnant.

  Driver’s not my husband.

  He’ll probably never be my husband.

  But from the moment we fall into bed, I’m ravenous for him.

  I want to lick every inch of his skin. I want to scratch my fingernails down the ridges of his abs. I want to climb on top of him, I want to lie beneath him, I want his hands on my hips as he takes me from behind.

  I want all of it, and then I want more.

  Food, and then more.

  The first day he stays at my uncle’s house, he makes me two separate batches of pancakes. He stays so late, trading stories with me. He tells me about all the places he went in college on a whim—Mt. Rushmore, Disneyland, a place in Arizona called Slide Rock. And I tell him about all the times I skipped a party to stay home—that he ends up sleeping in my bed until the early morning.

  Over breakfast I tell him about sneaking out of the bar early so I could lock my dorm room door behind me and put on my sweatpants. I tell him about moving back to my parents’ house early in the summer, and how they worried about it.

  I can tell from the look in his eyes that Driver’s a little worried about it, too. “You honestly would rather stay home than do anything else?”

  “Most times.” I think about all the ways going out can go wrong. “I get out enough. You met me on the beach, remember?”

  “What makes you walk on the beach at night?” He’s really asking me what makes me think that the beach at night is a safe prospect when going out with my friends was too much for boring ol’ me.

  “Oh, it happens every so often. I have to get out. But…not that often. Not the way you feel.”

  “I don’t feel like that right now,” he reassures me.

  “It’s okay, you know. If you do want to leave. You don’t have to say here on account of me.” It tastes like a lie, and I can’t for the life of me figure out why I don’t spit out the truth. There are a thousand moments when I could slip it into the conversation, and I…don’t.

  The second day slips by, then the third, and I am not getting any writing done. Driver can’t possibly be getting any work done, because he hardly checks his phone. Every time I wake up at night, half-delirious from sleep and sex, he’s lying there next to be, breathing evenly, the rhythm of his breath calm and soothing.

  On the fourth day I wake up early.

  Too early.

  It’s because I’m hungry.

  The hunger hits at the oddest times, like the predawn hour, and if I’m aware of it at all I have to eat. Driver chases morning sickness away. It’s either that or my body is determined not to be mortified in front of him again until it’s absolutely necessary.

  I slip out from between the sheets, pull and oversized crewneck sweatshirt over my head, and pad out into the kitchen. The housekeeper restocked yesterday. I know exactly what I want.

  Eggo waffles. Two of them. Right out of the toaster.

  The freezer releases a gust of cold air when I open it, and it sneaks under the sweatshirt to my naked body. It feels recklessly, ridiculously good. Driver’s hands on me are so hot—his body is so hot, and long, and lean, and muscled—that the central air can’t compete. I pop two waffles into the toaster and linger in front of the open freezer.

  Today’s going to be the day.

  It has to be.

  He deserves to know what’s going on, and I deserved for him to know, and I swear to god I will not fall back into bed with him without telling the truth.

  I had a good reason to wait—I really did. Seeing the disappointment on his face will break my heart and shatter everything we have together. It’ll turn all of this into something serious and vulnerable, and when that happens, I’m afraid he’ll disappear into the night and never come back.

  Like most of my friends did the last time I did something out of my comfort zone.

  The waffles pop up, scaring the shit out of me. All of those good reasons are excuses. I can cling to the idea of home for as long as possible, but I can’t hide from this.

  Part of me doesn’t want to hide from it.

  Part of me is secretly excited.

  I wait as long as I can stand it to take the waffles out of the toaster and bite into one. They are so good. Better than I remember, even. It could be the top-of-the-line toaster that makes them so crispy at the edges and so perfect on the inside. I tear off most of the first one with my teeth and let my head fall back in near-ecstasy. If this is what having pregnancy cravings is like, then it’s going to be a rough transition to the city, where I’ll have to share the fridge with at least four other women.

  If that’s how it all plays out.

  I finish one waffle and take a bite out of the second, making my way back to the bedroom. I’m almost there—my hand is on the doorknob and the last of the waffle is in my mouth—when a pounding knock on the front door of the house shatters the early morning silence.

  I freeze, resisting the powerful urge to duck. Nobody can see me from here. I’m all the way down the hall at the door to the master bedroom. Who’s doing this, and why?

  Maybe they’ll go away if—

  Another knock rattles the entire house, and I turn and sprint back down the hallway. Driver Bliss is sleeping peacefully in my bed. I do not want him to wake up to this. I sh
ould wake him up in case the person on the other side of the door has some nefarious intent.

  The third round of knocking begins as I skid to a stop in the entryway.

  “Holiday? I know you’re in here.”

  My mouth drops open and I leap forward, taking the final steps in a single bound. It takes a few seconds to punch in the code that disables the security system on the pad next to the door, and then I wrench it open and stare into the determined face of one Sophie Maclean.

  “Sophie?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “It’s me.”

  “What are you doing here?” I lean out of the door like she’s a strange mail delivery man who’s showing up at a completely unauthorized hour. “You’re supposed to be in Portland.”

  “And you’re supposed to be on the radar.”

  “What?” I run a hand over my hair. “What radar?” It strikes me that I am not wearing anything under this sweatshirt.

  “My radar. You can’t call me and drop a bombshell like my period is late and then disappear for days. You just can’t do that. I was worried something happened.”

  “You didn’t have to drive here,” I hiss. “You could have called. Or texted.”

  “I called and texted,” she insists. “You haven’t answered me in days.”

  “I—” Now that I think of it, I honestly can’t remember when the last time I checked my phone was. My parents are registered to get any emergency alerts from my uncle’s security system, and nobody else here cares what I do. “I should have checked my phone.” Where is my phone, even? I know I had it at the resort, but when Driver brought me back here…I put it on some side table and forgot about it. It’s probably been dead for as long as Sophie has been texting. “But you didn’t have to drive all the way here, and close down your business…”

  “I was worried sick,” Sophie says. “I know you like being alone, but this seemed…extreme. And I know it’s not my business, and you don’t have to tell me if you really don’t want to, but I was worried that you got news that—that shook you up, and it seemed weird after our conversation that you would just fall off the face of the planet like that, so here I am. Can I come in?”