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With a wave, I head toward the stairs. I glance back to make sure I’m out of her sight and move up the stairs with the speed of a snail that’s been smoking weed. It’s probably been about twenty minutes. Maybe he’s already out of the shower and dressed? One can hope.
If I was being honest with myself, which I’m not, I’d admit I will be mildly disappointed if he’s already dressed. There’s some tiny piece of my messed-up heart that really, really wants to see him in his towel.
I mean, I could die Tuesday while under anesthesia, and at least I’d go out with that brilliant image in my head.
But I’m not going to die, and I’m not going to be a creep. What if roles were reversed and Ford was trying to see me in a towel? He’s too much of a gentleman to even think about that, but still.
I will respect him as my friend, and not objectify him for being a very hot athlete.
And with that, I’m outside his bedroom door…our bedroom door. I squeeze my eyes shut, and open the door, jumping inside and closing it behind me before I can chicken out.
I hear Ford clear his throat, and my eyes snap open to find him studying me. He’s sitting on his side of the bed, his back resting against the headboard, a book in his hands. He’s wearing flannel pants and a fitted white tee.
Before I can be disappointed that he’s wearing a shirt, I notice his distinguished reading glasses. I think the studious look on him is almost as panty-melting as the shirtless look. I swallow and it feels like I’m trying to choke down a rock.
“Why are you being weird?” he asks, setting his book back on the nightstand and using one hand to slide his glasses down his nose. “Your eyes were closed.”
I manage to find my voice. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be dressed.”
One eyebrow and one side of his mouth quirk in unison. “And finding me undressed is scary enough that you squeezed your eyes shut like you were about to face a dragon?”
I straighten my spine, trying to come across breezy. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a naked man. I’m practically re-virginized.” My eyes widen. “I mean, my eyes…not other things.”
He scoffs. “Did you have something strong to drink while I was showering?” His expression sobers, and his voice grows serious. “Because I read online you shouldn’t drink until you’re cleared by your cardiologist.”
“Stop worrying. I haven’t drunk alcohol in over a year. I’m going to jump in the shower now.”
His mouth quirks to the side, like he wants to say something but isn’t sure if he should. “What is it?” I ask.
“You shouldn’t jump in the shower, it’s not safe.”
I burst out laughing, but Ford doesn’t join me. Sometimes I forget that figures of speech aren’t his thing. “I didn’t mean literally. Don’t worry, hubby. I won’t get sloshed or jump in the shower.”
His head tilts to the side, a light blush on his handsome face. “Oh, right. Sorry.”
I sigh. “Don’t be sorry, it feels good to laugh.”
When I get out of the shower, I lotion my entire body and braid my hair back in a French braid. I’ve slept in the same bed as Ford before, even when I came to visit him a few weeks ago. But I feel suddenly shy. Maybe it’s because we’re married…or maybe it’s this whole façade. But I’ve never slept beside a man while wearing a wedding ring. Something about sleeping next to him, in his grown-up bedroom, with his ring on my finger, feels a little more intimate than I’d like to admit. I even chose a black tank and pink pajama pants for tonight instead of my usual nightgown. Ford’s body temperature runs very hot, so I have a feeling I’ll regret the choice here in a few hours.
When I finally open the bathroom door and make to get into bed for the night, I avoid eye contact with my best friend—er, husband—until I’m completely immersed under the covers. A literal security blanket.
I can feel Ford’s stare and then hear his book close, but he stays sitting up in bed, on top of the covers.
“So, what kind of non-fiction book are you reading?” I ask, breaking the silence, but still staring at the ceiling.
“How do you know it’s non-fiction?”
Finally, I turn on my side and look up at him. “I’ve never seen you read a fiction book.”
“I’m not the same person I was in high-school and college, Ambs,” he says pointedly, then rolls his eyes. “But yes, it’s non-fiction. It’s a biography of a World War II vet.”
I snort. “Just a little light reading before bed?”
A soft laugh escapes him, something about the sound puts me at ease, makes me feel like we’re still Ford and Amber…not Mr. and Mrs. Remington.
“Yeah, I guess it’s not the most relaxing read. Maybe that’s why I’m an insomniac.”
Ford slips under the covers and lies on his side so we’re facing each other.
