Fake dating the captain

Chapter9

~Liv~

I woke up tasting something like…..death? s**t! and regret too….OMG, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth like I’d been licking a carpet all night, and the first thing I felt was Rowan’s arm still locked around my waist, heavy and warm and way too f*****g there. My brain did that thing where it reboots in safe mode and then immediately slams me with the highlight reel of yesterday: me grinding on him in the truck, me begging, me slapping him, me crying like a toddler who dropped her ice cream. Cool. Awesome. Ten out of ten way to start the day.

I had to get out. Like, right now. Before he woke up and looked at me with those stupid kind eyes and made me feel even smaller than I already did.

So obviously I tried to ninja my way out of the bed, slow-motion rolling toward the edge like I was defusing a bomb, except the sheets had other plans and twisted around my ankles and suddenly I was falling, face-first, straight onto the hardwood with a thud that rattled my teeth and probably woke up half the county.

“Jesus f*****g Christ,” I wheezed into the floor, cheek smashed against a dust bunny the size of a hamster.

From the bed came this sleepy, gravelly, “Morning, sunshine. You okay down there or should I call an ambulance?”

I flipped off without looking. “I’m fine, just testing gravity, thanks for asking.”

His laugh was low and rough and way too amused for someone who got slapped less than twelve hours ago. The mattress creaked and then his face appeared over the edge, hair sticking up everywhere, eyes squinty, that dumb half-smirk that made me …... “You always wake up this graceful or is this a special performance for me?”

“Shut up,” I muttered, trying to untangle myself from the sheet burrito I’d become. My ass was straight up in the air, his T-shirt had ridden all the way to my waist, and I was giving him a free show of yesterday’s panties. Perfect. “Stop staring at my ass.”

“Hard not to when it’s saluting me.”

I finally kicked free and sat up hard, hugging my knees to my chest like that could hide me from the entire concept of existing. My head felt like someone parked a truck on it. “I’m leaving.”

“Yeah?” He sat up fully now, blanket pooling around his waist, looking annoyingly hot for someone who probably had my slap mark still blooming on his cheek. “You got shoes? Phone? Money? Because last I checked you came here barefoot and crying.”

“I’ll figure it out.” I crawled on my hands and knees toward the door because standing felt like a war crime against my skull. “I’ll walk. Naked if I have to. Whatever. I’ve done worse.”

“Liv.”

“What?” I snapped, not turning around.

“You’re still wearing my shirt.”

I looked down. Yep. Giant gray thing swallowing me whole, smelling like him, soft and warm and making me want to scream. “I’m keeping it. Emotional damages.”

“Fine. Keep it. Just come eat something before you puke on my porch and scare the squirrels.”

“I don’t want your pity breakfast, Rowan.”

“It’s not pity. It’s bacon. There’s a difference.”

My stomach growled so loud it echoed. Traitor.

I groaned, loud and dramatic, and let my forehead thunk against the floor again. “I hate you.”

“Feeling’s mutual right now, trust me.” But he sounded like he was smiling, the bastard.

I heard him get out of bed, bare feet padding across the floor, and then he was crouching in front of me, blocking my pathetic crawl to freedom. He had on nothing but boxers and bedhead and that stupid soft look again.

“Up,” he said, grabbing my elbows and hauling me to my feet before I could protest. The room spun. I grabbed his shoulders to stay upright and immediately regretted it because touching him made everything worse and better at the same time.

“Let go,” I mumbled into his chest.

“No.” He steered me out of the bedroom like I was a drunk toddler. “Kitchen. Sit. Coffee. Bacon. Then you can hate me properly.”

“I already hate you properly.”

“Awwww. My multitasking queen.”

He dumped me on a stool at the counter and I folded forward, banging my head gently against the wood over and over like maybe if I gave myself another concussion I could forget last night. He ignored me and started clattering pans like this was normal. Like I didn’t try to use him as a suicide mission with my v****a few hours ago.

The smell of coffee hit me first and I actually whimpered. He slid a mug in front of me without a word. Black, two sugars, exactly how I like it even though I never told him. Creepy. Sweet. Awful.

I wrapped both hands around it and stared into the abyss. “I’m sorry I slapped you.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry I’m a walking disaster.”

“Also know that.”

“I’m sorry I tried to f**k the sad out of me using your d**k like a sledgehammer.”

He snorted so hard coffee came out his nose. “Okay, that one’s new.”

I peeked up at him. He was wiping his face with a dish towel, shoulders shaking from laughing, and God I hated how much I loved making him laugh even when I wanted to die.

“Stop being nice to me,” I muttered. “I don’t deserve it.”

“Too bad. I’m fresh out of asshole today.” He flipped bacon and the sizzle filled the silence. “Eat first. Self-loathing’s better on a full stomach.”

I took a sip of coffee

and burned my tongue. Good. Pain I understood. “I’m never drinking again.”