Lisa.
Mason: Saw the interviews. You did well. You being good to my girl?
Lisa: Thanks. I laid awake all night, hoping I'd get your stamp of approval. And of course, I am.
Mason: But not too good, right?
Lisa: Is that what I'm aiming for? Good, but not too good? It's a wonder you raised an adult as functional as Roseanne.
Mason: Why aren't you complaining about her?
Lisa: Because she isn't so bad.
I'm so fucked. I'm super fucked. I'm so super-mega fucked. Roseanne was also right. I'm a massive prick. Because I've been awake for the better part of an hour, letting her cuddle me. Staring at her, trying to memorize every little freckle. Watching her sleep like a lovesick Ted Bundy or something.
I woke up when I felt her nuzzle against my bicep, and when I slowly opened my eyes, I was as close to her mouth as I had been the night before. When I'd done everything I could to not lick that hot sauce off her lips like a goddamn savage.
But now she's on me. Thigh slung over my legs, just below where my morning wood is saluting the world-Roseanne specifically.
Her small palm presses against the center of my chest, while her cheek rests against my arm. She's even still clutching my hand. Something that makes an ache throb in my chest.
I'm trying to be a gentlewoman. I really, really am. But I also haven't failed to notice how her sweatshirt has ridden up her mid-section. The way the waist band of her silky underwear is peeking out from her sweatpants.
Taunting me.
I want to do distinctly ungentlewomanly things to Roseanne Park. But I also want her to warm her cold feet up on me again. Anytime she wants. The thought of her being cold and uncomfortable infuriates me.
I want to take care of her, even though she doesn't need taking care of. It's honestly really fucking confusing. It's also a terrible fucking idea. But then, good ideas haven't ever been my forte. Why start now?
She stirs, and I look at her shuttered eyes again. Soft lashes drawn down, a smattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose and the apples of her cheeks. I wonder if they show up on any other parts of her body.
My cock surges, and I don't think I can blame my current erection on morning time physiology anymore. It's just a straight boner because I want to bang my agent's daughter. And then snuggle her. Trace her freckles.
Goddamn. I scrub my face with my spare hand and berate myself for not sucking it up and sleeping on the floor-no matter how badly it hurt. It couldn't have been worse than this realization.
I peel myself away from her, trying to extricate my tangled limbs and feelings. But when I silently fuck my palm in the shower minutes later, I'm not all that sure I've succeeded. Especially since it's her name on my lips when I spill myself on the base of the porcelain tub.
***
"You'll be pleased to hear that while I was using the restroom on the flight back, Roseanne ordered me a glass of milk."
Roseanne snorts and takes another bite of the scone in her hand. From the opposite side of the breakfast table, Bambam cackles over the rim of his coffee mug.
"Roseanne, will you marry me?"
My brother asks in jest. But my cavewoman brain misses the joke. Instead, it sounds like my big brother is hitting on her, and I want to scoop her up and hide her away. Because Bambam is everything I'm not. Heroic, organized, dependable, clean-cut.
If I had to pick a type for Roseanne, I'd envision Bambam.
To prevent myself from saying something I'll regret, I scald the back of my throat with hot coffee. To her credit, Roseanne just rolls her eyes. Which, pathetically, makes me feel better.
