Crossroads (Beautiful Biker MC Romance Series) - DD Prince Page 0,62
hassle of texting anyone else?
Jenna: Sure. And everyone cares. Big hugs.
I pouted at the screen.
“Love you, Jenna,” I said aloud and then I flopped back and started my movie. I then proceeded to get lost in the old favorite as I devoured a whole can of Pringles and half a bag of jellybeans, plus almost half of a giant chocolate bar before I fell asleep on the couch.
***
I woke up to a face and voice that’d been in my dreams a whole lot.
Christian Forker. Christian Forker was standing over me. I bolted upright, knocking my bag of jellybeans and the remote to the floor.
His eyes moved over me and of course, he looked mad at me.
“What the fuck?” I breathed, heart racing like mad. I had my hand to my chest. “Omigod.”
“I said, this fuckin’ door isn’t locked.”
“What?”
“Havin’ trouble with my truck,” he grunted.
Huh? I gave my head a shake as if trying to shake off the mirage that Christian Forker was standing over me in the great room of my family’s cabin.
“Was ten minutes up the road from here. Broke down. Brady told me to have it towed here and got me the keycode for the door so I could crash here until morning when he comes to get me.”
“Oh.”
Not a mirage.
I tried to blink away my slumber and get my racing heart to settle down. We’d put keycode locks in not long ago. It was infinitely better than having to hide a key on the property.
His eyes narrowed. “I get here and see your hog ‘n then see you through the window, so I check and the fuckin’ door is unlocked. You’re here with the door unlocked, passed out to the fuckin’ Bee Gees.”
I had passed out, surrounded by snacks. The passing out part was a plan. I needed noise to sleep so I wouldn’t hear what was in my head. I’d also restarted my movie when the silence woke me, so it could keep me company.
“Oh,” I grumbled, pressing pause on the DVD remote.
“The fuckin’ door is unlocked, woman,” he repeated unnecessarily, as if I hadn’t heard it the other times he said it.
“Nobody’s out here,” I rubbed my eyes. “Totally safe.”
“Still. Lock your fucking door. You bananas? You slept straight through me bein’ dropped off by a tow truck with the fuckin’ lights on and making a whack of racket as he unloaded my truck right out there and you slept. I coulda been anyone.”
“Yeah. Junk food coma.” I surveyed the snacks damage and squatted to pick up the lost Jelly Bellies. I didn’t make eye contact with him.
He seemed pissed, or more pissed probably because I wasn’t showing remorse about leaving the door unlocked. I didn’t have it in me to give a shit. I had a lot of people pissed off at me right now. And after what’d happened Saturday night after Delia’s party, he was the last person I wanted to see.
I didn’t even have it in me to give a shit about the condition he found me in, passed out in my polka dot granny-style pjs with Pom Pom socks on and my hair everywhere, surrounded by ineffectual cures for a bout of the ‘everybody hates me’ blues. I tossed the floor candy into the fireplace and wandered to the bathroom for a pee.
While sitting there on the toilet, I rolled my eyes and fixed my ponytail. Figures. I’m here for peace and quiet away from my two biggest problems and my number two problem turns up. Mad at me.
Not cold and emotionless like his supposed M.O. Angry. Because the door wasn’t locked.
I couldn’t even look at him. I couldn’t stand to do it and risk the flashbacks. Flashbacks of that mouth on my lips, of those hands on my body, how it felt to press myself against him. The taste of his tongue in my mouth. Not to mention the fantasy sequence that wanted to stream in my head of me on the back of his motorcycle. In the fantasy sequence, both of us would have our hair blowing in the wind, smiles on our faces. And of course my cheek would be on his back, my arms wrapped around him.
When I was back in the family room, he was standing in the very same spot, eyes on the TV, a scowl on his face. The screen was paused on the You Should be Dancing number, John Travolta frozen while doing his overhead clasped finger wave motion.