When we walk into the bedroom, I say, “Why don’t you get ready for bed first? I suspect you’ll be faster than me.”
He grabs a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt out of his bag and heads into the hall, leaving the door open. I pull out my pajamas and stare at the stack of bags in the chair, probably Alex’s way of making sure I don’t sleep in the chair, as though I couldn’t just move them to the floor.
He walks back into the room about five minutes later and says, “All yours.”
I go into the bathroom and get ready for bed, and when I return, Alex is sitting up in bed, reading a book that looks like a boring business tome. He glances up and scoots closer to his side of the bed. Not that I have to worry about him encroaching on my side. There’s a bulge under the covers—it looks like two pillows lying lengthwise down the middle of the bed.
When he sees my gaze drift there, he says, “I made a wall.” He pauses. “Like the Great Wall of China.”
“You think you need to keep out an enemy?” I tease, my mouth dry. I’m already nervous about getting in bed with him.
“It’s to protect you,” he says adamantly. “In case I accidentally reach for you in the middle of the night.”
I nod, still looking at the bed.
“I can sleep somewhere else,” he says, misunderstanding my hesitation. “I don’t plan on mauling you. It’s in case I don’t realize what I’m doing while I’m asleep.”
“I’m not worried, but it’s a good idea,” I say as I walk over to my side of the bed and slip under the covers.
Alex sets his book on the nightstand and turns off the light, plunging the room into darkness. We lie in silence for nearly a minute, and I keep myself plastered to the edge of the bed. Touching Alex came so naturally today. I’m worried I’ll try to spoon him in my sleep, pillow wall or not.
“Thank you for a wonderful day,” I say softly into the darkness.
He doesn’t answer for several seconds, and I wonder if he’s one of those people who fall asleep within seconds of their head hitting the pillow, but then he says, “I had fun.” He pauses, but then adds, “More than I’ve had here in a long time, so I feel like I should be thanking you.”
“We’ll just form a mutual gratitude club,” I say, then cringe, thankful it’s dark, and he can’t see my embarrassment.
Mutual gratitude club, Finley? Really?
He chuckles. “Which one of us is president?”
“Me, of course,” I say, relief spreading through me that he’s playing along. “It was my idea.”
“Okay, Madam President. Does that make me vice president?”
“Only if you want the title,” I say, relaxing. “There are other offices to fill.”
He laughs, and we fall into silence again, only this time it’s more comfortable.
“Good night, Finley,” he says, his voice warm and soft.
“Good night,” I say, smiling to myself. Alex might not be my boyfriend, but I think I can confidently call him my friend. And for now, I call that a win.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Alex
I lie awake long after I hear Finley’s slow and steady breathing. I can’t stop thinking about that Christmas ornament and the way she reacted to Mom’s tree. I’m berating myself for taking Mallory’s word that the ornament was gone. I should have gone back and checked myself. But tomorrow I’ll ask Mallory to keep Finley occupied, and I’ll go by the booth and check for myself when I pick up the stockings. If it’s really not there, I’ll look for something else, because I have to get her something. Opening gifts is just as much a part of Christmas as giving them, and I’ll be damned if she doesn’t have something to open.
But her reaction to the Christmas tree has given me another idea. Finley said she wants to experience as many Christmas activities as possible, so I come up with a plan. We’ll have to postpone ice skating, but I suspect she won’t complain once she realizes what we’re doing.
In the morning, I wake up before Finley does. She’s curled on her side, facing the pillow fortress, a few strands of hair spread across her cheek. I reach over to brush them away, but just before my fingers graze her skin, I pull back.
What the hell am I doing?
I’ve never done anything like that for any other woman. I’m not the guy who wakes, wanting to touch someone just to touch them. My relationships have served a purpose, and the women I’ve dated fit a profile. They got to be with a man projected to make several million off a start-up, and I got a beautiful, successful woman to bring to business dinners. Fair trade.
Sure, it sounds shallow, but six years ago, I learned the hard way that giving your heart away is dangerous—in the literal sense.
