First Dance (Strip in the City, Book 3)

12 • Whatever it Takes

Kennedy

My alarm starts blaring, and I fumble in the sheets, trying to find my phone to shut it off, when my fingers brush against warm skin.

A low, throaty groan rumbles beside me, and I freeze solid.

I'd fallen asleep alone in Lucas's bed, but I'm not alone anymore.

Not at all.

At some point last night, he came home from work and gotten into bed with me, and we'd been sleepin' beside each other for hours.

I knew this was going to happen. We were sharing an apartment, but somehow I'd forgotten that while I was asleep.

Slowly, I turn my head and catch a glimpse of him perfectly asleep. How he can sleep straight through my train whistle alarm is beyond my imagination, but he hasn't moved.

He's lying on his side facing me. Not wearing a shirt. His hair is all mussed. Lips parted and breathing slowly. The chain around his neck is coiled on top of his fist–the one that holds the dog tag and the cross.

I realize I'm still touching his forearm, so I slowly pull my hand away, find my phone under my pillow, and silence the alarm.

It's quiet in the room now—well, as quiet as New York gets. These old buildings speak a language all their own. Creakin' and sighin' until you're sure they are just as alive as you are.

This building has probably seen its fair share over the decades, but I've got more to worry about than the past.

Right now, my biggest problem is how to get out of this bed. My side of the mattress is pushed against the wall, and my options are either to climb over him–which ain't happening–or try to slip out of the covers and crawl toward the foot of the bed.

It's an easy decision, but I really don't want to wake him up. I'm imposing on him already and he works late.

So, as carefully as I can, I wiggle out of the comforter, and once I'm out of the sheets, I stand on the mattress and take two big steps so that I can get my hands on the dresser. I plan to shift my weight and hop down.

But when I look into the mirror hanging above the dresser, I catch Lucas's eyes closing, and all of a sudden, my skin feels way too hot, and my heart is pounding like horse hooves over gravel.

He wasn't sleeping at all. He's awake.

I want to throw a pillow at him for pretending to be asleep and making me feel bad for sneaking out like some one-night stand gone bad, but I don't. I don't want him to know I saw him watching me.

Because why was he watching me?

I'm sure it's because he didn't want to make me feel bad for waking him up. I'm sure it isn't because he was looking at me in some kinda way. Like he did the night we were both drunk in Nashville.

The night he doesn't remember.

He was drunk, and that kiss was nothing to him.

Lucas is a flirt, and I'm his friend.

A part of me wants to ask him again if he remembers our kiss. But again, I don't.

There are just some things you don't ask a man unless you want to get your feelings hurt. I learned that much from Flynn.

As quickly and quietly as I can, I grab my ballet bag and make the snap decision to do my mourning routine at the studio. I can go a twenty-minute train ride with dirty teeth. God knows I wouldn't be the first one. I just need to get out of here.