If he had a girlfriend or wife, then that would have been the time to say it, right? Unless he’s a lying, cheating arsehole, of course.
Although I do have this itch in my brain that I might have already had that conversation with him last night. When I was drunk. And I have no frigging recollection of said conversation or whether it actually happened.
Ugh.
So, I should knock off the lusty thoughts about him until I actually know for sure what his relationship status is. Not that I would ever actually consider doing anything with him.
But he is really frigging nice to look at.
Pushing off the door, I use the toilet and wash my hands. I get a glimpse of myself in the mirror and want to cry.
For fuck’s sake. I look awful. My skin is pasty. My lips are dry and cracked. My hair looks like that bird tattooed on West’s back made a nest out of it for the night. And my breath is rancid.
Spying some mouthwash, I pick it up and pour some into my mouth, making sure the bottle doesn’t touch my lips. I don’t want to leave bad morning breath on his bottle of mouthwash as well.
I gargle it for a solid two minutes before I spit.
A little better, but I need to scrub my teeth clean when I get back to my villa.
Which I have no key for.
Christ almighty.
I’m going to have to go to reception in yesterday’s clothes and get a new key. Unless … I left the back door open when I went out. I was drunk enough to forget my key, so more than likely, I’d left it open. I had been drinking out on the deck after all.
I could hop into the water off the jetty and wade around to the steps to my villa, and bingo, I’d be in without having to walk all the way to reception.
Cool. I have a plan. Now, to get dressed and put that plan into action.
I pull on my leggings and top, feeling gross and counting down the seconds until I can get a shower. I push my feet into my Converse. Run my fingers through my tangles, smoothing it down the best I can.
Taking a deep breath, I unlock the door and step out.
Looking right, I see West standing out on his deck, back to me.
For a moment, I consider just sneaking out to save myself more embarrassment that will inevitably come because, you know, it’s me. But sneaking out would be a dick move. I just need to thank him for his hospitality and get the heck out of here.
I walk over, stopping where the sliding doors are open—like I’m hoping mine are—and clear my throat. “So, I’m gonna head off … back to my villa. Well, to reception to get a key for it and then to my villa.”
Why do I have to ramble? Why can’t I just be normal?
West turns around and leans back against the railing. He crosses his legs at the ankles and brings his coffee cup to his mouth, drinking it.
I watch, once again mesmerized by the movement of the muscles in his arms and chest. I’ll be shocked if there isn’t drool dripping from the corner of my mouth.
When he lowers the cup, there’s a smirk on his lips that tells me he’s well aware that I’m ogling him. Again.
Shit. I’m not supposed to be lusting over him, remember? Funny how quickly I forget when faced with those abs.
I blink myself free and look past him to the gorgeous Maldivian morning view of ocean and skyline.
“Can I ask, did I do anything—aside from the stuff I already know—to embarrass myself?”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know. In the bar or anything? I didn’t say stupid shit to anyone other than you?”
He smiles, and it’s fucking delightful. “No. Just me.”
“Did I puke?” It’s been known in the past when I drank too much.
“Nope. You held your liquor like a champ.”
“Um, good. So, yeah, thanks again for taking care of me. And I’m sorry I was such a prat.”
“Prat?” He lifts a brow.
“Yeah, prat. You know, like idiot.”
“Nope.” Another drink of coffee. “Never heard of the word before.”
“It’s a Brit word. And you’re American … so, yeah, of course you wouldn’t have heard of it. Unless you’ve watched British TV shows, that is. But you probably haven’t.” Oh my God, stop rambling and get the fuck out of here. “So, yeah, sorry for being an idiot with the whole