Chapter Nine

By the time Wilder clocked out of the project house for the night, he’d worked up a good appetite. That was no small wonder—it was almost ten. He hadn’t planned to stick around so late. But he’d gotten a little caught up finishing the trim in the bedroom that would be Virginia’s.

He’d spoken with her that afternoon. By all accounts, she was having a blast with her Nana and Pops again. No surprise there. His parents were born to be grandparents. Wilder hoped she hadn’t picked up too many bad habits that they’d have to break. Again. Waverly would pitch a fit.

The trim in her room was perfect at least. While he was supposed to be the big-picture guy on the projects, sometimes it was nice to get in there and do something so task-oriented. It was productive and tangible. In that moment, it was just him and the coat of paint. It was easy to forget about the countless other odds and ends that had to be taken care of during the renovation. It was also a way to work off the frustration and anger he’d been carrying with him.

Maybe he’d call Felix to see if he was free. He wouldn’t mind a beer and company. He’d worked off his irritation, but he could still use some distraction.

Distraction from wishing he could actually call up Bailey to see if she wanted to grab that beer. She’d been distant since the day the kitchen flooded. Not that he blamed her. Things had gotten a little intense. Even though he knew it was for the best that he kept her in the dark a while longer, he wanted to tell her. Almost as much as he wanted to kiss her.

But like figuring out what to do after this season, it was an issue for another day.

He pulled into the motel parking lot and frowned at the figure seated on the bench outside the lobby. Was that . . .

“Son of a . . .” The source of his distraction was standing—or rather sitting—between him and his beer. Was she barefoot? And where the hell was her jacket? It was too chilly—and late—to be out for nighttime strolls without shoes and a jacket. It didn’t make sense. Bailey was far too reasonable to do something so dumb. Unless . . .

“Shit.” Something must be wrong. Maybe she was hurt or sick. What if someone had attacked her?

That possibility had him racing across the lot and kneeling in front of her. “Are you . . . okay?” He caught his breath between wheezes. “Bailey? Honey, are you hurt? What happened?”

Her eyes lifted to his. “Hey. Where’d you come from?” She reached forward to touch his face but missed her mark. She grabbed hold of his shoulder, and he pulled her upright to keep her steady. The sudden movement sent out a gust of air smelling suspiciously like tequila and beer. Both of which a certain contractor friend of his kept stocked in his fridge.

“Are you drunk?”

She hiccupped. “Maybe a little.”

He gritted his teeth. “Were you drinking alone or did you have an accomplice?”

“A-ccomp-lish?” She hiccupped again. “That’s an awfully big word for a million o’clock at night.”

It took every ounce of his patience not to drag her inside so he could pound on Felix’s door. Her chattering teeth reminded him of where they were and how she was dressed—in an old T-shirt and baggy shorts. He pulled off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders.

She beamed up at him stupidly. “You’re one of the good ones. It’s a pity.”

“What’s a pity?” He slipped her arms through the sleeves and zipped her into the jacket.

“That what they say is true.”

“What’s that, honey?” Damn. There he went dropping in that endearment without meaning, again. He was getting sappy on top of being pathetic. “What do people say?” he prompted when she’d become distracted by playing with the hairs on the back of his neck, sending a shiver of pleasure down his spine and settling into his gut.

With a sigh, she dropped her hands into her lap. “That all the good ones are gay or married.”

His heart hitched. “Is that so?”

“Yep.” She gave another heavy sigh. “I just wish you weren’t one of them.”

“What? One of the good guys?”

“No. You should be one of the good guys.” Her golden eyes met his. “I wish you weren’t one of the married ones. That’s bad of me to say, isn’t it?”

“No.” He shook his head and took her icy hands into his, rubbing them to share some of his warmth. The gesture sent another jolt of electricity through him, one that was getting harder and harder to ignore. “It isn’t bad of you. And Bailey?”

“Yeah?”

“Sometimes people get what they wish for.” The words sounded smug and stupid once they were out, but he didn’t care about semantics. As of this moment, he was decided. He was going to come clean with her about Waverly when she was sober. He needed to clear the air between them.

He just needed her to focus for a few more minutes until he could prod a few more answers out of her. He opened his mouth to ask her about Felix, but she covered his hands with hers.

“Do you know what else I wish?” Her voice was low and breathy, stoking the need building inside him.

“What?” he croaked out. Damn. Pull yourself together, man.

“I wish . . .” She inched forward, close enough that her breath warmed his lips. “That I could kiss you.”

He swallowed hard. It would be so easy to lean forward and take her mouth with his. “I’d like that, too.”

She closed her eyes and let out a breath that was almost a whimper. “It wouldn’t be good.”

She was wrong about that. If he had his lips on her, good wouldn’t even come close to describing how it would be. The longer he sat there staring at her, the more he wanted to discover exactly how it would feel to explore every inch of her. All he had to do was inch forward.

No. He pulled back, snapping out of his haze. Even if kissing Bailey right that second wouldn’t complicate everything, she was drunk. She might say she wanted to kiss him, but she wasn’t thinking clearly. He wasn’t going to take that choice away from her.

Instead, he cleared his throat. “Where’s Felix?”

“With Paige.”

“Paige?”

“My sister.” She sighed again and squeezed his hands. “He’s about to become her next victim.”

“Victim?”

“My sister is a smart, creative, and beautiful woman.” Bailey absently traced designs on the back of his hands. It took every ounce of his willpower to focus on her words instead of the tremors she was sending through him with the easy caress. “But she’s a man-eater.”

“Man-eater?” He chewed on the inside of his cheek, irritated at his inability to do more than ask one-word questions in his rattled state.

“She finds men and makes them love her. Then she breaks their hearts. She never means to do it,” Bailey rushed out. “We just aren’t good at these sorts of things.”

“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. Memories 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.