“You all right?” he asks quietly.

“Hmm?”

He glances down at me, blue eyes blazing. “You seem sort of out of breath.”

I let out a little laugh but don’t respond.

We go back to quiet, although oddly it’s not uncomfortable. Well okay, it’s uncomfortable, but it’s not unpleasant. Not really.

Still, the tension is mounting, and I make it to the elevator of our hotel before I realize that I need to say something now, before there’s a bed a few feet away.

“I’m not going to sleep with you.”

Reece doesn’t even blink, his gaze locked on the elevator numbers as we ascend. “Don’t recall asking.”

“But that dance…”

He glances over. “Was a dance. You danced with the other guy too.”

“Which you didn’t like,” I say, hands on my hips. Admit it. You were jealous.

Reece’s eyes flick over me, goosebumps left in the wake of his gaze, but he doesn’t deny or confirm, and I’m oddly disappointed.

True to his word though, once we step into the dimly lit hotel room, seduction seems to be the last thing on his mind. He snaps on the light. No, he snaps on all the lights, before hauling his duffel bag onto the couch and rummaging through it, coming up with a bedraggled-looking Ziploc bag with his toiletries.

He lifts his eyebrows when he finds me watching him. “You want to use the bathroom first?”

“No.” My voice is scratchy, and I try again. “No, go ahead.”

Reece shrugs and goes into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him, while I lower myself to the side of the bed and try really hard not to think about how good it felt to have his hot, firm body pressed against me. I try not to think about how when his fingers brushed my thighs I’d wanted to turn to him, beg him to keep going, to drag his fingers up and up, to touch me everywhere.

I groan, putting both hands over my face and flopping back on the bed, legs dangling over the side.

“Well. This is a sight.”

I sit bolt upright again when I realize Reece has come out of the bathroom and isn’t even trying to hide the fact that he’s noticed my skirt has hiked up.

I hurriedly pull it down, and he smirks. Smirks.

I give him my best glare before scooting off the bed. “Done in the bathroom?”

“Yup.”

Once again, not looking at me. Fine.

I brush by him, ignoring that he smells like mint and soap and man.

He cheated on you. Never forget that.

I hesitate only briefly before taking off my makeup, stuck between this weird place of thinking, It’s just Reece and Ohmigod, it’s Reece.

Sort of like that feeling of wanting to look your best for a guy, and yet somehow knowing that you don’t have to, because he’ll like you anyway.

I put toothpaste on my brush and point it at my reflection in warning. “Don’t. He doesn’t like you. Remember. And you don’t like him.”

“What’s happening in there, Hawkins?” he calls.

“Nothing.” I shove the toothbrush into my mouth, working up a furious foam.

By the time I come out of the bathroom, the rum-haze is fading, my blood is cooling, my brain gaining the upper hand over my hormones.

And then it all goes to hell. He’s standing there in nothing but blue plaid boxers, and he’s an absolutely perfect specimen of a man.

He was always fit courtesy of high school sports and long hours in the vineyards, but this is different. Once again I realize that the boy I knew has been replaced by a man. And he is all man.

“Damn it, Reece, put a shirt on.”

He gives me a bemused look before crossing the room to the closet to grab the spare blanket from the top shelf. “You’ve seen it all before.”

“Yeah but that was…”

Reece grabs one of the pillows off the bed. “That was what?”

“That was before,” I say, grabbing at the pillow.

He laughs and grabs it back. “Seriously? There are like six pillows on that bed. You don’t need them all.”

I grab it back again, only to regret it, because at least the pillow blocked some of the view of his six-pack. To make matters worse, his boxers are slung low, revealing far too much muscly goodness.

I’m in so much trouble.

He turns away and I think I’ve won, but he merely goes to the other side of the bed, grabs a different pillow and stalks to the couch.

“You’re not going to pull out the bed part?” I ask, watching as he settles on the couch, picks his phone off the side table and begins swiping at whatever’s on the screen.

“Obviously not,” he says.

I toss the pillow onto the bed with more force than necessary and go to my bag for pajamas.

“What’s your deal, Lucy?”

“What?” I snap.

He’s not even looking up from his cell. “It’s not my fault you can’t decide what you want.”

“Meaning?”

I sneak a glance to make sure he’s not looking, then peel my dress over my head. His bored tone tells me he cares a hell of a lot more about whomever he’s texting than he does me.

“Meaning, you can’t decide if you want to force yourself to pretend you’re trying to get over that ass-wipe Oscar, or if you hate my guts, or if you want me to jump you, but I’ll tell you, if you’re going to strip in front of me, the latter is likely to happen.”

I spin around, and sure enough he’s staring at me.