CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
JORDAN
“Wakey, wakey, chicken shakey!” a voice yelled.
The bed started shaking.
“Earthquake!” I gasped, and then fell onto the floor in a heap of blankets. The minute I thudded I almost wished something would fall on my face. My head was pounding. What did Max put in those drinks last night? I let out a small groan and was met with another loud noise.
“Aw.” Max tugged the comforter from my face. “Get in a fight and lose last night, slugger?” He winced. “Damn, that hair could have its own Twitter following. I think I’d hashtag it #thething.”
“Why?” I croaked.
“Well, it kind of resembles the Thing, or is that Cousin It?” His eyebrows drew together in thought.
“Not why would you name it that, just why, why are you in my room? Speaking.”
“Well,” Max said as he took a seat on my bed, “Reid ordered room service and he knew you’d want actual Starbucks, thus he took the elevator down to the main lobby to acquire his lady’s favorite drink.”
“Why are you speaking in a British accent?”
“I said acquire and lady in the same sentence. It’s what the Brits do.”
“Says the Canadian,” I grumbled.
“Isn’t it fun how both countries get me?” Max grinned. “Now, for real, I’m doing you a favor. No wars have been fought or won over a chick after she wakes up still drunk from the night before, and you have actual eyeliner in your hairline. Somehow it went from here”—he pointed to my eye—“to here.” He pointed to my forehead. “And it’s not your best look. Plus . . .” He helped me to my feet. “You smell like cheap liquor and prostitutes.”
“Your fault. You shoved dollar bills in my hands,” I said weakly.
“I was under the impression you wanted to participate.” With a heave, he had me in his arms. And was walking me toward the bathroom.
“What’s goin’ on?”
“Fairy godmothers don’t get time off, though I think we really should talk to the union for better benefits. We have to pay for our own fairy dust—take it from me, that shit’s expensive.”
It was too early for Max.
“All right.” He set me on the counter, then turned on the shower. “Now, I won’t cross my brother by tossing you in there naked and scrub-a-dubbing you until you bleed. But you have around four minutes”—he glanced at his watch—“possibly seven, if I can stall him at the elevator.”
“Before?”
“He gets back and sees this.” Max turned me to the mirror.
I gasped in horror.
“You’re welcome.” He winked. “Now, hurry up. Oh, and it’s hot as hell out, so wear shorts.”
“Max,” I called.
“Yeah?” He turned around in the bathroom doorway, his muscled body flexing. I wondered if he even worked out for that body or if he gave God so much flack that God was finally like, chill, you want it, just take it; I can’t deal with you anymore.
“Thanks,” I said in a small voice.
“Anything for my new sister-in-law.”
I rolled my eyes. “We aren’t really getting married.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“No, really.”
“Fine.”
“Max! Stop agreeing with me!”
He held up his hands, then nodded. “Um, no?”
“Better.”
“Three minutes.”
“Damn it!” I jumped off the counter onto wobbly legs, then started stripping. Max smartly closed the door behind him while I made quick work to get all the crappy makeup off my face. It was the fastest shower I’d ever taken in my life.
I just finished brushing my teeth and adding some mascara and lip gloss when Reid knocked on the door.
“Jordan, you decent?”
“No.”
“Uh.”
“Reid, you’ve seen me naked, does it matter?”
“It matters if you’re going pee. Girls hate when guys watch them pee.”
“This is the most romantic moment of my life,” I gushed. “Now Max said you have coffee.” I pulled open the door. “Pay the toll and you may enter.”
He thrust the hot cup in my hands. “I figured you’d need a venti. You were in rough shape last night.”
“I’d say I know, but I don’t really . . . know.”
“Oh, wow.” Reid frowned. “You mean you don’t remember . . . anything?”
Nervousness started making its way down my spine. “No.” I gulped. “Why?”
“Wow, I don’t know how to tell you this.”
“Reid, just say it!”
“We had sex, lots and lots of mind-blowing sex.”
“Oh.” I glanced at my flushed face in the mirror.
“And you just kept saying over and over again how amazing I was. How big my penis was. What an amazing body I had. I mean, you went on and on and on about just one pec.”
“Did I?” Why didn’t Max just smother me with a pillow?
“Yeah, and then you begged me for more. Then you may have tweeted out to all of my new followers that I was the best sex of your life. Oh, and the hashtag #ReidEmoryisasexgod has been trending for around six hours. So . . .”
I slapped my forehead.
Then glanced at Reid’s reflection in the mirror.
His smile was huge.
“You bastard!” I yelled. “You lying bastard.” I set my coffee down, then smacked him. “I believed you!”
“What can I say?” He took a sip of coffee. “I’m a great actor.”
My eyes narrowed. “So what happened?”
“You wanted to swim in the fountain.”
I groaned. “Please say you didn’t let me.”
“Didn’t let you.” Reid nodded. “I’m all for CPR, but I didn’t want you to puke vodka all over me once I revived you . . .”
I winced. “And then?”
“I carried you back to the hotel—you walked barefoot, by the way. Maybe when we get back to New York, do a blood test to make sure you didn’t catch something.”
“Wow, it just keeps getting better.”
“And then you stripped in the living room and tried to take advantage of me . . .”
I gulped. “And how did that go?”
“Really well. I was super into it until I felt guilty and told you to take a nap, which you did. At one point you did wake up and call me Phantom, but I think that’s just because the sheet was over my back and you thought it was a cape. It took me a good ten minutes to settle you down after that since you literally thought the Phantom was in your bed, but things got progressively better once I sang you back to sleep.”
“You what?”
“Sang you,” he whispered, “back to sleep.”
“What song?”
“‘Music of the Night.’”
“Damn it!” I stomped.
“Hey, hey.” He chuckled. “There’s more time for that later, don’t worry. It’s not like you have to get drunk for me to sing to you.”
“Really?” I perked up, giving myself away completely, but not really caring since he’d probably seen me at my worst.
“Really.” He took two steps, then three, then pressed me back against the counter. “Also, two glasses.”
“Huh?”
“Of wine.” He nodded. “Then I’m cutting you off, because this”—he kissed me softly—“is happening, and I want you to feel me when I kiss you, when I fill you. That a problem?”
“No,” I whispered.
“Good.” He kissed me again. “Now do something with that hair, it’s freaking me out.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s growing.” Reid pointed with his coffee. I huffed and took a look in the mirror; the brown edges were slowly starting to puff up by my ears. How? Seriously? “Also, I have eggs and Advil waiting for you.” He turned to walk out of the bathroom.
“Hey, Reid?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s not pretend anymore . . . is it?”
“It hasn’t been pretend for a while, Jordan.”
“But.” I gulped. “The media and—”
“Screw the media.” He shrugged. “This is about us.”
“I trust you.” I swallowed more coffee, needing the distraction. It burned all the way down my throat as I choked out, “I trust this.”
“Good.” He nodded. “Jordan, I would never hurt you.”
With that he walked off and I was left praying what he said was true. Because I wasn’t so sure I would recover from the type of heartbreak Reid Emory would leave me with. If he left, if he hurt me.
He was the type of guy you compared every other guy to.
There was no going up.
There was no getting better.
Only worse.