which made her hazel eyes somehow look green. The blue t-shirt, I would like to point out,
was thin enough to show off her deeply toned abs like she was in a commercial
for a local gym. Her black hair was
combed carefully to the side today, and she had on a slim leather wristwatch.
May I point out again that she was
standing in my bedroom.
I drew the covers a little further
up and found myself blushing. I was no
stranger to waking up to a woman in my bedroom—and normally, I didn’t care what
she saw. But Layne…wasn’t like that. She wasn’t a one-night stand, and she wasn’t
my girlfriend.
She was my intoxicatingly attractive
bodyguard…
…Who had apparently made me
breakfast in bed?
I was starting to get mixed
signals.
“You don’t have to cook for me,”
were the words out of my mouth before I realized that this was probably not the
best first thing to say to her.
I held the comforter to me and
painfully realized that I was only wearing a t-shirt and panties, and the
t-shirt I was wearing was one from my teenaged years, and was therefore pretty
ratty, but held nostalgia for me, which is why I kept it and wore it to bed. It had a picture of Britney Spears on it,
the cover of her very first album where she looks all innocent, before all her
shit hit the proverbial fan. Please
don’t judge, I’m sure you have one embarrassing piece of clothing somewhere,
too.
Or…maybe it’s just me.
“Eh, I was making myself breakfast,
and I thought: why not? I thought that maybe it’d take the sting out
of being held up at gunpoint last night,” she drawled, deepening her smirk. “So have you always been a fan?”
Oh, God , she had seen
the shirt. I rolled my eyes and shook
my head, drawing up my comforter so far that it rested beneath my nose. “I swear, if you ever bring this up to
anyone else ever —”
“You’ll hit me, baby, one more
time?” asked Layne with a low, throaty chuckle that simultaneously made me
blush a few shades redder, but that also gave me the realization that I
was only wearing a t-shirt and underwear and that she was standing pretty darn
close…
Something began to stir in me,
uncoiling in my belly as I took a deep breath and bit my lip, trying to figure
out a scathing, clever comeback.
“Hey, I don’t judge,” she said
after a long moment in which I utterly failed to think up a scathing, clever
comeback. Layne spread her hands and
shrugged as she grinned at me. “Eat
up—you have a big day ahead of you!”
I shot her a suspicious look, but
she was already turning, her hands shoved deep in her back pockets as she
whistled “Hit Me, Baby, One More Time” on the way back to the kitchen.
I stared at those hands in her back
pockets. Stared unabashedly, the blush
deepening in my cheeks as I realized that I wished my hands were in
those back pockets, not hers.
Oh, God, I really needed to
get a grip. I bit my lip and realized
exactly how warm I was, buried beneath the comforter, and pushed it off, rising
and hobbling over to the bedroom door before shutting it with a soft click .
Okay, so maybe it wasn’t the most appropriate thing in the world that my bodyguard had waltzed into my bedroom without
knocking (or maybe she had knocked, and I was too deep asleep to hear
her, I reasoned with myself) and brought me breakfast in bed while
simultaneously seeing me in all my ratty t-shirt glory. And had my comforter been pushed off my
legs, too? Had my rear been visible to
her? God, maybe she’d seen the whole
shebang. I blew a sigh and plunked
myself back down on the edge of the bed.
Okay, so maybe it wasn’t appropriate . But hot? Hell, yes.
And she’d made me breakfast . In bed. Not even my long-term girlfriends had ever made me breakfast, and I
wasn’t even dating Layne.
I mean, okay, Elizabeth, get a
grip . I took a deep breath and
threaded my fingers through my tousled hair. Layne was a
was thin enough to show off her deeply toned abs like she was in a commercial
for a local gym. Her black hair was
combed carefully to the side today, and she had on a slim leather wristwatch.
May I point out again that she was
standing in my bedroom.
I drew the covers a little further
up and found myself blushing. I was no
stranger to waking up to a woman in my bedroom—and normally, I didn’t care what
she saw. But Layne…wasn’t like that. She wasn’t a one-night stand, and she wasn’t
my girlfriend.
She was my intoxicatingly attractive
bodyguard…
…Who had apparently made me
breakfast in bed?
I was starting to get mixed
signals.
“You don’t have to cook for me,”
were the words out of my mouth before I realized that this was probably not the
best first thing to say to her.
I held the comforter to me and
painfully realized that I was only wearing a t-shirt and panties, and the
t-shirt I was wearing was one from my teenaged years, and was therefore pretty
ratty, but held nostalgia for me, which is why I kept it and wore it to bed. It had a picture of Britney Spears on it,
the cover of her very first album where she looks all innocent, before all her
shit hit the proverbial fan. Please
don’t judge, I’m sure you have one embarrassing piece of clothing somewhere,
too.
Or…maybe it’s just me.
“Eh, I was making myself breakfast,
and I thought: why not? I thought that maybe it’d take the sting out
of being held up at gunpoint last night,” she drawled, deepening her smirk. “So have you always been a fan?”
Oh, God , she had seen
the shirt. I rolled my eyes and shook
my head, drawing up my comforter so far that it rested beneath my nose. “I swear, if you ever bring this up to
anyone else ever —”
“You’ll hit me, baby, one more
time?” asked Layne with a low, throaty chuckle that simultaneously made me
blush a few shades redder, but that also gave me the realization that I
was only wearing a t-shirt and underwear and that she was standing pretty darn
close…
Something began to stir in me,
uncoiling in my belly as I took a deep breath and bit my lip, trying to figure
out a scathing, clever comeback.
“Hey, I don’t judge,” she said
after a long moment in which I utterly failed to think up a scathing, clever
comeback. Layne spread her hands and
shrugged as she grinned at me. “Eat
up—you have a big day ahead of you!”
I shot her a suspicious look, but
she was already turning, her hands shoved deep in her back pockets as she
whistled “Hit Me, Baby, One More Time” on the way back to the kitchen.
I stared at those hands in her back
pockets. Stared unabashedly, the blush
deepening in my cheeks as I realized that I wished my hands were in
those back pockets, not hers.
Oh, God, I really needed to
get a grip. I bit my lip and realized
exactly how warm I was, buried beneath the comforter, and pushed it off, rising
and hobbling over to the bedroom door before shutting it with a soft click .
Okay, so maybe it wasn’t the most appropriate thing in the world that my bodyguard had waltzed into my bedroom without
knocking (or maybe she had knocked, and I was too deep asleep to hear
her, I reasoned with myself) and brought me breakfast in bed while
simultaneously seeing me in all my ratty t-shirt glory. And had my comforter been pushed off my
legs, too? Had my rear been visible to
her? God, maybe she’d seen the whole
shebang. I blew a sigh and plunked
myself back down on the edge of the bed.
Okay, so maybe it wasn’t appropriate . But hot? Hell, yes.
And she’d made me breakfast . In bed. Not even my long-term girlfriends had ever made me breakfast, and I
wasn’t even dating Layne.
I mean, okay, Elizabeth, get a
grip . I took a deep breath and
threaded my fingers through my tousled hair. Layne was a
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