Anyone But Nick (Anyone But... #3) - Penelope Bloom Page 0,42

the task of investigating the cabin, and for once, I didn’t have to stress about him destroying anything. If he did, it would be on Nick’s dime. Maybe that was petty of me, but I could live with the guilt, just like I was sure Mr. Billionaire could live with the financial burden of the bullheaded dog he’d forced on me.

In what I was coming to realize was typical Bone Thug fashion, he found his way into the weirdest spot in the room to curl up and take a nap. In this case, it was the bathtub, and his entry was far from graceful. Once he was done slipping his awkward, long legs into the tub and circling while grunting for several minutes, he finally curled up and fell asleep almost instantly.

Idiot dog. At least he was almost cute when he was sleeping. Actually, cute was pushing it too far. He was less hideous and a little less annoying, but that was all I was willing to give the brute.

I stuck my head in Max’s room to let him know I was going to lock up for the night a few minutes later.

Max was standing in front of his TV with his shirt off and a muscular torso on display. I covered my eyes and backed out, slamming the door behind me. “God, sorry!” I shouted through the door. “I was just going to let you know I was locking up and getting ready for bed,” I said, resting my forehead on the wall and squeezing my eyes shut.

“No worries,” he called through the door. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I could hear the smug smile in his voice.

I sat down on the edge of my bed and stared at the wall. Why was this so confusing? Nick had made himself about as clear as he could. We were colleagues. Nothing more, nothing less. Our past was where it belonged—seven years behind us—and we were both going to do the adult thing: move on.

So why was there an oily little ball of guilt rolling around in my stomach? I should’ve been giddy at this made-for-television setup between Max and me. He was the handsome reporter, and I was the young, successful businesswoman. I could already imagine TV audiences rooting for us to hook up, especially if they got to see how Nick had turned me down before I’d even decided if I wanted to make something of my feelings with him.

Max Frost, who admittedly did have an incredibly stupid name, seemed like a great guy. He was handsome and successful, and he had made no secret of the fact that he was interested in me.

I should’ve been biting my lip and letting my mind wander to all the dirty little scenarios that might follow after walking in on Max with his shirt off. He’d knock on my door and confess that he didn’t think it was fair to have such a one-sided exchange. He’d say he was going to need to see mine, too, in the interest of fair-and-balanced journalism.

Except I was forcing it. And every scenario I imagined ended with Nick King kicking down the door and carrying me away like a misbehaving child. The worst part was that I felt the strongest emotional response to the idea of Nick carrying me off, even if half of it was outrage.

Max was making it unfortunately clear for me. I wasn’t done harboring feelings for Nick. Worse, those feelings I’d been telling myself were anger for so long had miraculously turned into something a lot more like longing, especially when I’d learned the truth about my dumb poem.

Maybe all I needed was some sleep. A few good hours of rest and everything would be more clear in the morning. I hoped.

I woke to a gentle tapping at my door. Groggily, I got out of bed and threw on one of the complimentary robes to cover myself up. It was comfy, so I tugged it a little tighter around myself and let out a soft, happy little noise. Thug must’ve heard me getting up, because I could hear his stupid, toothy self scrabbling around in the bathtub as he tried to get out. I smiled. I’d never admit it to anyone, but I was starting to enjoy seeing all the varieties of dumb that Thug could get himself into.

A short man with a silly hat was waiting outside my door. He had a cart with silver domed plate covers and