Page 20 of Not You Again
Kit clears his throat. “Which side of the bed do you want, sweet potato?”
I shoot him a look and heave my suitcase onto the bench at the foot of the bed. Kit follows suit, and soon we’ve both ducked into the bathroom at intervals to change into pajamas and brush our teeth. Not the romantic evening Cassidy wanted for us, I imagine.
By the time I emerge from the bathroom, Kit has already removed the rose petals from the bed and slid under the comforter, scrolling through his phone.
“Guess I’m sleeping on the right,” I say, forcing too much brightness into my voice.
Kit sets his phone face down on the nightstand. “You do enjoy being right, if I remember correctly.”
I narrow my eyes. He laughs when I yank the comforter back hard enough that it exposes his legs. Thank God he’s wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants. I’m not ready for a full flash of thigh like I got this morning. A woman can only take so much before she does something decidedly stupid.
When I pull the comforter up to cover my own bare legs, Kit catches my hand in his. He turns it over, brushing his thumb over my palm. I yank it out of his grip and give him a scowl.
He rolls his eyes and slides out of bed. “I’ll be right back.”
After he disappears into the bathroom, I hear the faucet running. There’s some more clatters and shuffling. The mattress shifts under his weight when he returns, and he dumps his haul on top of the comforter: hotel-provided lotion, a small bottle of ibuprofen, a bath towel, and, still clutched in his fist, a hand towel.
He sits cross-legged on the bed, facing me. “Hands, Andie.”
I scowl.
He rolls his eyes. “Jesus. I’m not going to hurt you.”
My eyes slide to Cassidy and Steve, watching our every move. With a heavy sigh, I turn to face him, holding out my hands.
He turns them over, then frowns. “This looks like it hurts.”
“It does.” I punctuate it with a shrug. This is just what it’s like to work with my hands. Sometimes they hurt.
Kit slides my wedding band off and sets it aside. He wraps both my hands in the wet towel. It’s warm, a contrast to the cool air-conditioned room. Goose bumps climb over my arms, and my nipples stand at attention. I shift on the mattress, hoping to readjust my shirt so no one notices.
Then he squeezes my hands in the towel, and I can’t help the groan that escapes me. I can’t remember the last time I was touched like this. It’s so delicious, I want to drown in it.
Kit laughs. “If I didn’t know any better, sweet potato, I’d say you like that.”
“Shut up,” I mumble, flexing my fingers in his hands.
He removes the towel. Without looking me in the eye, he asks, “How do they get to be like this?”
“I work with delicate fabrics in colors that show every single speck of dirt. I have to wash my hands a lot to make sure I don’t ruin anything.”
His eyes meet mine, and I swallow a gasp. The look is intense—like he’s trying to look right through me. I expect a probing question about our past, but he only says, “You said you’re showing at Fashion Week.”
I nod.
When it’s clear I’ve lost my capacity for speech, he picks up the lotion. He starts working it into my skin, and I groan again, my eyes falling closed. Kit chuckles as he kneads the heel of my palm.
Cassidy clears her throat and asks, “You two dated in college, right? How did you meet?”
I shake my head. “We really don’t need to talk about—”
“An art class.” Kit answers without hesitation. He stays focused on my hands as he explains. “We were both late, so we got stuck at the front. She dropped a pencil; I picked it up. When I handed it back to her, she just stared at me like she couldn’t believe I was a real person.”
I snort my disapproval. “Right. Because you were such a beautiful man, I was stunned into silence.”
He begins to work on my other hand, a smile playing at his lips. “You looked at me like that this morning too. Some things never change, do they, sweet potato?”
When I use my newly free hand to flip him off, he laughs wholeheartedly, throwing his head back. “Whatever,” I mumble. “I caught you looking, too.”