“Is that a bad thing?”

Georgia pulls her head back to look me in the eye. “In a world where every guy just wants to get laid and acts like a douchebag, no—it’s not a bad thing. It’s a good thing. Why would you think that?”

I shrug. “I get a lot of shite because of the accent. I think some people mistake it for me being pompous.”

“Pompous.” She giggles. “Proper, but not an ass.”

“You’re proper too, you know.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm,” she seems to purr, still only inches from my face. “You think I’m a good girl?”

I inhale another breath, her words holding a bit of daring.

A challenge to agree with her statement, her wanting to prove me wrong.

I’m not going to, though. I’m not going to say a word. I’m just going to let her believe what she wants to believe instead of starting this conversation with her.

The truth is I do think she’s a good person despite the rocky start we had. And I understand why she did it, because I understand what peer pressure feels like.

I know now that she’s not a shallow person; she’s funny and upbeat.

She’s kind and generous and sweet.

And speaking of sweet, her breath smells like peppermint. Her skin smells like almonds and shea butter—the same lotion she left on the kitchen counter yesterday that I rubbed on my arms thinking it was hand cream.

“I think you’re a good person, yes.” I swallow, not wanting to use the phrase good girl—it somehow feels too sexy and intimate and I highly doubt she’d be pleased.

I don’t think most young women appreciate being called girls, or cute, or nice. Or good.

Makes them feel dull and boring, though that’s not at all what it means.

“Good person,” she repeats, letting out a breath. “So not the bratty asshole you met at the rugby house?”

“I don’t hold that against you. You have to let that go. Unless, of course…” I look her over. “You plan on hazing someone again.”

“No!” she hastens to say. “I would never—shouldn’t have to begin with, you know that. That’s not me and I haven’t hung out with those girls from my team since.”

I noticed she separated herself from them but wasn’t sure of the exact reason. I had my suspicions, and now they’ve been confirmed.

Georgia’s fingers boop me on the nose, a smile on her lips.

After she’s done touching the healing cut on my mouth, her finger roams to explore other places. She runs the tip along the bridge of my nose—that has been broken at least three times—then over my eyebrow once more, seemingly loving the fact that they’re bushy if the upturned side of her mouth is any indication.

I wish I could read her mind.

I wish she would tell me what she’s thinking so I wouldn’t have to lie here trying to guess.

I kind of wish she would kiss me right now.

“I probably shouldn’t be touching you like this…now I feel weird.” I don’t hate that she’s finally telling me what’s on her mind. “I’m sorry.”

“You know,” I slowly start. “You apologize a lot instead of owning your shite. You don’t have to apologize or say you’re sorry for touching my face. All you’re doing is looking at my cuts and bruises. It’s not a big deal. It’s not like you’re doing anything wrong.”

“Do I do that? Apologize too much?”

“You do it enough that I notice,” I say, not wanting her to feel bad. But she does say I’m sorry a lot—more than she knows. “Not that it’s a big deal. There are worse things in the world for someone to do, and apologizing isn’t one of them. Doesn’t even top the list of offenses.”

“You’re right, that’s true. If it’s the worst thing I do besides accidentally asking the wrong guy on a date…” She’s teasing now, beginning to look tired, eyelids doing that saggy little thing they do when someone is weary.

Georgia pulls away to lean back against the pillows she was resting on earlier, a small smile on her face as she regards me from across the mattress.

“What should we do while we’re in Vegas?” Her face is set into a peaceful calm, her tone almost a whisper.

Not sleep in the same bed, I want to grunt out. “I think it would be cool to lay out at the pool for a few hours at least.”

It’s nice here, but it must be really warm in Nevada, and splashing around in cool water with a drink in my hand sounds bloody fantastic.

Besides, I can’t remember the last time I’ve been in water that wasn’t the shower, or from a cold hose at a summer house party.

“That would be fun. I’ll make sure to pack my suit.” Georgia yawns. “I should start making a list.”

“You have everything sorted out?”

“With the contest people? Yes, I actually had a phone call with them earlier because I had a few questions, and they were nice. I had to give them the names of the two people going—you and me—and she emailed me a form I have to fill out, for taxes I think she said.” That makes her groan. “I had no idea you had to pay taxes on prizes, did you?”

“Sort of. Not that familiar with American laws though.”

“Gift tax.” She pulls a face. “If I had won a car, I would have had to sell it just to pay the dumb tax.”

“Are you sure you want to go on this trip, Georgie? We don’t have to—we can take a road trip instead.”

She levels me with a stare. “I’m not not going.”

Alright. Okay.

I back off as she yawns, closing her eyes before laying her head back down. Wait…it doesn’t look like she’s in any hurry to leave—is she planning to sleep here then, in my bed?

Do I tell her she can’t stay?

I’ll never be able to sleep if she’s lying here breathing, smelling delicious, and looking amazing.

After a few minutes of silent debate, I glance over only to find her already snoozing, looking adorable and pretty, curled up in my blankets, quilt pulled up to her chin.

It doesn’t take me long to drift, either.

It’s pitch black when I wake in the middle of the night. I’m not sure what time it is, but it must be late because the sun hasn’t started to come out yet. No sense in getting up or even checking my mobile, and I don’t have to pee…

There’s a body pressed against my front side, an arse pressing against my cock, and I lie still, motionless, afraid to move an inch.

Afraid I’m going to get aroused and she’s going to wake up and think I’m doing something inappropriate.

I try to roll over—only to discover I’m already as far over on my side of the bed as I could possibly be, my roommate having rolled in my direction at some point in the middle of the night, hogging all the room.

Who knew she was a bed hog?

Never would have guessed it.

Unsure of what to do, I continue to lie still, motionless except for my breathing, and now I’m not sure where to put my hand, which I’ve had resting on my hip. It’s uncomfortable, to say the least, and I feel like a sardine stuffed in a can.

Maybe I should sleep on the sofa in the living room?