Page 49 of Married to the Scottish Player
How fucking inconvenient.
I’m standing in the middle of the hallway, listening to Annabelle brushing her teeth, hands on my hips like some idiot linebacker who just fumbled the game-winning play. I should probably sit down. Or lie down. Or dunk my head in the lake.
Instead, I pivot toward the kitchen. Coffee. Yeah. That’s what we need, because nothing about last night was normal.
The storm. The power outage.
Her mouth on mine.
My hands and lips on her skin.
Her hips grinding into my face like she’d been waiting her whole damn life for me to eat her out.
I yank open a cabinet. Mugs clink. Something crashes to the floor and bounces twice.
“Shit,” I hiss under my breath, crouching to pick up a rogue measuring cup that’s somehow managed to find its way into the cabinet. I find the drawer where it belongs, before starting two cups of coffee in the Keurig.
There’s a creak behind me, hardwood floors shifting. I glance up.
Annabelle stands in the doorway, hair in a messy bun atop her head, sleeves of a forest green hoodie pulled halfway down her hands. She’s swallowed up by it—bare legged, sleep shorts peeking beneath the hem as she eyes me up.
We stare at each other.
Neither one of us speaks.
At least, not right away.
“Coffee?” I offer, brandishing a mug like a peace treaty.
She nods slowly. “Sure.”
Cool.Casual.No mention of her orgasm that nearly caused a power surge.
I hand her a mug that saysNamaste Bitches, and she doesn’t even smile at it. Just takes a sip and leans her hip against the counter like we’ve done this exactly zero times before.
“Sleep okay?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Eventually.”
My jaw tightens. “Yeah. Same.”
A beat passes. Then another. The tension isstupid—sticky and slow like syrup—and I hate it, because I’m rarely in situations that make me uncomfortable.
I rake a hand through my hair. “So ...”
“So,” she echoes, eyes darting to the floor.
Fuck, this is awkward.
We stand there in the kitchen like two people who’ve absolutely, undeniably seen each other naked but have now decided to pretend we’re distant cousins at a family reunion.
I clear my throat. “Want to sit outside?”
She nods, seemingly grateful for the change in scenery. “Sure. Fresh air. Vitamin D. Loon surveillance.”
I grab the second mug—mine saysEspresso Yourself, because apparently the owner of this cottage has a boner for Pinterest—and we head out the screen door to the porch, careful not to look at each other too long.
Or at all.
