She held her breath, hoping, praying, he was hungover enough, and groggy enough with sleep, that he took her casually stated request at face value and face planted back into the sheets. Maybe by the time he truly woke up and roused himself out of bed, he’d wonder if he’d dreamed the whole thing. That was if he remembered it at all.
Problem was, even in the early morning gloom, he didn’t look too hungover. And other than that delicious rasp to his voice, he didn’t sound all that groggy, either. In fact, despite the tousled hair and shadowed jaw, he looked remarkably well rested for a guy who’d just gone to sleep a few hours ago at best. And that after some very—very—energetic sex. If Delia were to be believed, anyway.
Sophie squinched her face a little, digging her hand farther down alongside the cushion. The clock was ticking, and whatever she ended up having to tell this Daniel Templeton in order to talk her way out of his room, none of it was going to mean anything unless she found that damn phone and got it to Delia in the next—She glanced at the clock. Crap! Nine minutes!
But then he was sitting up and the sheet was falling farther down his ridiculously beautiful chest to pool at his perfectly narrow hips. He tossed the panties to the foot of the bed. “Perhaps I could be of some assistance.”
Sophie’s throat closed over, even as her body hummed with quite a few ideas on exactly how he could very personally assist her. “No, really, don’t trouble yourself. After all, you’ve, ah, done quite … enough.” She would have tried for a flirty laugh, or something else that a morning-after lover might have done. If she’d had a clue what that was.
She shoved her hand down even farther and rooted frantically around. “Really, it’ll just be a moment and I’ll be out of here. I—uh, didn’t mean to stay. You know, I know it’s not like that, I just—” If she didn’t find the damn thing in the next—five minutes!—the ringing of Adam’s incoming call would tell her exactly where it was.
At least it would be Sophie answering the call and not some strange man, as Delia had feared. She’d just tell Adam that Delia had accidentally left it in her office last night when she’d stopped by after closing the club, and Sophie was planning on dropping it off this morning on her way home. Yeah, that sounded plausible. He’d be pissy, because he hated anything altering his very specific schedule, but she doubted he’d call the wedding off because of it. Which would have been highly likely if the man presently staring at her with a rather bemused look on his drop-dead gorgeous face had answered the phone instead.
Then Sophie had another idea. What if Delia was wrong? What if the phone hadn’t dropped out into the cushions when they’d been playing cowgirl and bucking bronco? Given the way Delia had described them entering the room, clawing each other’s clothes off, the phone could really have fallen off Delia’s belt clip anywhere.
She scanned the room, half-tempted to rip open the curtains so she could see better, only that would give Mr. Sexy Voice a better opportunity to see what she looked like … and possibly remember she wasn’t the same woman he’d dragged home from the bar last night.
“Not that I mind waking up to find a beautiful woman crawling around my hotel room floor, but might I ask how you got in here?”
She should have been scrambling for a good answer, but her brain had gotten stuck on he thinks I’m beautiful? Of course, there was very little light. And the guy was obviously a horrible womanizing bar troll. Except she’d never once seen a bar troll who looked like this guy.
“I—uh.” She hesitated, then tried to bat her eyelashes. “Don’t you recall? I think I’m a tiny bit insulted here.” God, she sounded like a bubble-brain moron. No guy would fall for that. Except maybe a bar troll.
She silently prayed and kept on digging. One glance at the clock had her blanching. Three minutes. In three minutes, her friend’s fairy-tale marriage to Chicago’s wealthiest bachelor was going to go up in smoke, and Sophie’s hard won career advancement was going to go down in ignominious flames. And she only had herself to blame.
It had been her idea to have the non-Wingate-sanctioned stealth bachelorette party for Delia in the first place. They’d had it early in the evening, since both Sophie and Delia were supposed to report for work that night. Only Sophie made it in, but when she’d left Delia and some of their friends in the pub, her friend had assured her she’d covered her shift, using a last-minute wedding emergency as an excuse.
Sophie wasn’t entirely sure doing tequila shooters with an out-of-town investor—who just happened to be staying at the Wingate!—was exactly an emergency, but she’d trusted that no one would find out, given any Wingate worth their trust fund wouldn’t have been caught dead at a local pub anyway. Of course, how the two of them had left the pub and gotten up to this room in the hotel at some point last night without anyone seeing a very drunk Delia, Sophie had no idea. She could only assume Mick, their concierge, had played a large role there, given he shared her views on Delia’s Prince Charming, and the fact that there had been nary a whisper along the very healthy hotel grapevine by the time her best friend had found her an hour ago, just as Sophie was getting off shift. She’d arrived in Sophie’s office still wearing the same outfit she’d been wearing the evening before, hungover, contrite, crying … and begging Sophie to help her out of a jam.
In hindsight, Sophie should have left well enough alone and let the Wingate’s official bachelorette party be the standard-bearer. Adam’s sisters were planning a stunning bash for their beloved brother’s bride-to-be this very evening, with a guest list anyone would drool over. A guest list that did not include any of Delia’s actual friends, of course, but … minor detail. Those would be the same friends she’d had increasingly little time for over the past six months, anyway, as the wedding plans had kicked into high gear, and the Wingate clan had slowly absorbed Delia into the fold. Assimilating her. Like the Borg.
“I beg your pardon,” Mr. Sexy Accent said, jolting her back to the moment at hand. He was sitting on the side of the bed now, sheet at his waist, well-toned calves braced apart and manly feet planted on the bedside carpet. “No insult intended, but are you claiming we … know one another?”
Sophie was no actress, but she gave it her best shot. “I’m hurt you’ve so quickly forgotten. Must be the tequila.”
“Tequila? Never touch the stuff. Unless, perhaps, you’re referring to your proclivities?” He leaned forward and braced his arms on his knees, so he could get a closer look at her.
Sophie shrank back, but the angle of her hand, presently buried elbow deep in seat cushion, kept her from scooting away.
“Because, tequila or no, I’d have remembered you.”
A sliver of daylight speared the crease between the curtains. Just enough to illuminate his face more fully when he leaned forward. Green eyes. He had dark green eyes. And thick lashes. So unfair. No one should get all the goods in one package.
She tried to keep her gaze from dipping to what goods he might have in his other … package. Maybe he wasn’t so gifted there. Maybe that was the karmic balance. All that perfection on the outside, but then when you unwrapped it … Except Delia had been pretty specific about … things.
Things Sophie wished her friend had never, ever mentioned. Ever.
Things that made her wish she’d been the one to go pub crawling in the wee hours with the rest of the gang as the party had wound down, instead of having to report to work for her shift. Things that made her wish she’d ended the night doing tequila shooters flat on her back on some sticky, nasty bar while some guy licked salt from
