Page 84 of Off the Grid

Camilla

I feel ridiculous.

Like absolutely and utterly ridiculous for how I reacted. The mini freak-out was completely unwarranted. And the fact that I let the panic win the war over the way Riggs’s kiss and hands on my waist makes what I did even more annoying.

Didn’t I accept this job and promise myself I had to be braver?

First challenge and I cowered in a corner.

First chance to maybe act on that attraction between us, and I up and bolted like a dog in a thunderstorm.

To add insult to injury, the party continues to rage on the other side of the wall. More cheers go up. More laughter rings. More music thumps.

I ignore the knock on the door.

No doubt it’s another partier on Wills’s group text string. They’ll go away. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize the music is coming from down the hall.

There’s another knock but this time it’s a fist pounding on the door followed by, “It’s me, Camilla. Open up. I’m not going away.”

There’s no way he knows I’m here. For all he knows, I could have gone out for a drive. I’ll save myself from more embarrassment.

The noise is what gets me. The loud, unmistakable thump of what sounds like a body hitting the floor.

I run to the door and fling it open, thinking he’s passed out. Instead, Riggs is sitting with his back against the door so that when I open it, he falls inward and backward, his head on my feet. He looks up at me with a goofy grin and slurred laugh.

“Howdy, neighbor. What do you know? You are home.” He chuckles like the drunk man that he is and then lifts his arms up to me. “I’m gonna need some help.”

Within seconds, Riggs is upright and swaying a bit more.

“Your flat is moving,” he says as he takes it upon himself to walk past me and survey my place. “But it suits you. Orderly. Fashionably conservative. Practical.” He turns to face me and chuckles. “I’ve slept in way worse places so no complaints here.”

“I’m sure you have. Wait . . . what do you mean? You’re sleeping here?” I ask as he grabs his shirt by the back of the collar—in the way only guys can do—and yanks it over his head. He gives a quick look around, almost as if to ask where to put it before he crumples it up in his hand and tosses it onto one of my chairs. “Spencer.”

“Ooooh, I’m in trouble now. She’s using my first name,” he says to no one in particular. And now I’m faced with the bare torso of a man I’ve seen online and enjoyed in my dreams.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“You have to use my first and last name. That is if you’re mad at me. If not, Riggs will do just fine.” He grins and holds his hands out—which of course sets off a chain reaction of muscles moving and tightening in his chest. “So where do you want me?”

In me.

On me.

Making that dream of mine become a cold, hard reality.

I cough to hide the shock of my own immediate thoughts.

“What do you mean, where do I want you?”

He flashes a grin that could create world peace. “I’m sleeping here.”

And right as he says it, as if on cue, a cheer goes up in his flat next door.

“You can’t. You have a house full of people.”

“And?”

“And you just can’t leave them.”