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“What are you doing in here? I thought you had your own room.”
“There were none available,” Crew says breezily, pulling off his suit jacket and tossing it across the back of the gilded couch.
“You’re lying,” I inform him, crossing my arms.
“Am I?” He gives me an infuriating smirk.
“You’renotsleeping in here.”
“Why not? Worried you won’t be able to control yourself, Red?”
I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood. “I’vecontrolledmyself for the month we’ve been married. So no, I’m not.”
I expect him to bring up how loudly I moaned next to my parents’ pool. The only reason we didn’t have sex that night was because he didn’t have a condom and thinks I’m sleeping with a surgeon. Rubbing up against him wasn’t exactly the pinnacle of self-control. But instead of a reminder, all he says is, “Great. I don’t see what the problem is then.”
“You’re sleeping on the couch.”Fuck. I don’t negotiate. Ever.
Crew’s triumphant smirk is maddening. He untucks his shirt and starts unbuttoning it. Looks at the fancy Victorian-style sofa that appears about as soft as a wooden board. “The bed looks more comfortable.”
“I’m sure it is. If you want a bed—” Another suggestion to get his own damn room dies on my tongue as he discards his khaki shorts and strides to the bed in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs. My mouth goes dry as he climbs in on the side of the bed I usually sleep on.
Golden skin rippling over defined muscles assaults my vision and hijacks my thoughts. He did most of the exploring the last time he was shirtless. I’m ogling and he appears indifferent, climbing into bed and rolling onto his stomach. He tugs a pillow under his head, closes his eyes, and that’sit.
No touching. No teasing. No taunting. No talking.
We feel like a married couple—fifty years in. Not a loving one who cherishes every moment they share. A resigned one where time together is a chore and at least one person always has somewhere they’d rather be.
I’m completely off-kilter, but if I protest more, it will essentially be admitting I can’t handle his proximity. That I’m affected by being near him while he’sunconscious. I am, but I would rather sleep on the floor than give him that information. Than give Crew the satisfaction of pushing me out of my bed—of winning.
I stomp over to my bags to retrieve my toiletry kit and pajamas. I make sure to slam the bathroom door shut behind me, well aware I’m acting like a petulant child. More than being annoyed with Crew, I’m pissed at myself. If I really wanted to, I could make him leave. I’m choosing to allow this because a part of me wants it. I can feel the cracks appearing in my walls. And I know it.
Worse? So does he.
I just won’t admit it—to him or to myself.
I wash my face and slather it with moisturizer. After I go through the rest of my evening routine, I slide out of the dress I’ve been wearing all day and pull a sleep set on.
Then I pad back out into the living room, tossing my white dress over the same couch where Crew abandoned his jacket. I continue into the bedroom. The lamp is still on, but Crew appears fast asleep, his back rising and falling steadily with each breath. I hover in the doorway, taking the rare opportunity to study him, the same as I did last time we shared a bed. Something Ithoughtwould be an infrequent occurrence.
I head to the left side of the bed and slip between the silk sheets. It’s a king size bed, but it feels tiny. Crew and I are nowhere close to touching, but I can feel the heat radiating from his side of the bed. Hear his rhythmic breaths. Instead of counting sheep, I’m thinking about having sex with him.
It takes me a long time to fall asleep.
CHAPTERTWELVE
CREW
Scarlett doesnotlike being surprised. I knew that before I set this plan into motion, and my ears are still ringing with her questions when we land in Italy. Her tone grows more and more annoyed with each vague response.
Where are we going?“You’ll see.”
How long are we staying?“Not sure.”
My personal favorite, which I don’t bother answering:Will there be WiFi?
I know she feels badly about what went down in Paris that first day. Telling me she didn’t want me there, pouting while Jacques hit on me. She’s too stubborn and prideful to actuallyapologize, but she agreed to extend our trip past the few days it was originally supposed to last. I lied and told her I needed to take a meeting on behalf of Kensington Consolidated, and it made more sense for me to cross the French-Italian border than put someone else on a plane from New York to Florence. After four days of avoidance and silence, I think she was just shocked I asked.
Maybe it’s hypocritical of me, expecting honesty from her while I make up meetings. But the difference is I’m lying to keep her close. Scarlett lies to push me away. And, call me insane, but I keep trying over and over again.
