We climb into our respective seats and buckle up, and why did I buy such a small car, and god, he is sitting so close to me. Which is a ridiculous thing to be freaking out about, because the man literally has been inside me, but here we are.
It’s only five minutes. I can do this. I’m not going to be overcome with the sudden urge to bang Grayson West in five minutes.
Even though it’s not the urge to bang him that I’m really concerned about.
It’s these other weird, kind of warm, and not totally hateful feelings that may or may not be sprouting like mistletoe—the poisonous kind, not the one with magical kissing powers. If I’m honest with myself, I know these not-hateful feelings have been growing for a while now, but having a real conversation with him with our clothes on seems to have acted as some kind of magical plant food, and the worst thing that could happen would be for those sprouts to grow roots. Also, I need to possibly lay off the plant metaphors.
We don’t say much on the drive, but it doesn’t feel awkward or uncomfortable. When I park back at the inn, Grayson automatically grabs my books from the backseat, carrying them inside without me even having to ask.
We stop in front of the door to my room. The natural progression of things would be to invite him in for our nightly fuck-fest, but before I can extend the offer, Grayson clears his throat.
“If you don’t mind, I’m feeling a little wiped tonight. I was going to head back to my room and get to bed early.”
“Oh.” I unlock the door to my room and push it open. “Yeah, of course.” I reach for the stack of books.
He nudges me aside, crossing into my room and setting them down on the small table in the corner.
I stand in the doorway, and all the awkwardness we dispelled earlier flows into the room like an avalanche.
Grayson stops just outside the bubble of my personal space on his way out. “I enjoyed hanging out with you today, at least the parts where I wasn’t making a total ass of myself.”
“Enjoyed it so much you have to run away?” I nail the inflections, the question coming out clearly as a joke, but I don’t think it masks the tinge of disappointment in my voice.
He runs a hand over his beard. “Will it make it worse if I say it’s not you, it’s me?”
“Yes. God. Never say that, please.” I roll my eyes and punch him lightly on the arm.
He captures my hand in his, pulling me closer so our hips are flush.
My breath catches in my throat.
He takes my face in his hands, lowering his head until our lips brush. Once, twice. Then his mouth captures mine for a full kiss. I open to him, and he doesn’t hesitate, exploring me with his lips and his tongue, until our breaths are mingled, our bodies cemented together.
When he breaks the kiss, I instantly miss the heat of him.
His forehead falls to mine. “It’s not that I don’t want to, Ems.” He subtly shifts his hips until I feel all the evidence of his want. “I just think I need a little space. Yeah?”
Everything in me is screaming no, but how can I say that when he so clearly needs me to agree. I simply nod. “Yeah.”
He puts some of that stupid space between us, leaning down to give me a chaste, close-mouthed peck. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.” I seem to have lost all ability to form my own complete sentences.
“Good night, Harper.”
“Good night.”
I close the door behind him, locking it and letting my back fall against it. My fingers float up to my mouth, tracing my lips. Lips that I can tell are swollen and still bear the mark of him. Lips that are aching to be back on his.
But he was right to put some distance between us. Because today we almost felt like friends. And friends with benefits is completely different from enemies with benefits, or even costars with benefits. Friends with benefits is just a detour on the road to friends to lovers, and it is literally my job to know how that trope turns out.
So space is good. I’m here for the space. All about that space.
There’s a knock on the door—the door I’m still using to keep myself upright.
I open it without checking the peephole, assuming it must be Liz or one of the production assistants.
Instead, I find Grayson with his forearm propped against the doorjamb, breathing heavily, like he must have just paced back and forth between our rooms a few hundred times. “You know what I just realized? Space is overrated.”
