“Well, that was stupid, kid. C’mon, give me your phones, I’ve got some rice.”
“That doesn’t actually work,” I mutter under my breath.
“Does too. I’m a fisherman, you don’t think I’ve dropped my phone a time or two? Give them here.”
We both do and Dad retrieves a bowl and a bag of rice from the cupboard.
“Mind if I do a load of laundry?”
“’Course not. Need to borrow some dry clothes too?”
“Please,” Rosie says sweetly.
“I have to say, if someone would’ve told me that you two kids would end up at my place for the night, I would’ve told them to go fly a kite.” He sets his hands on his hips and glances back and forth at us. “But here you are. At my place, soaking wet, spending the night together.”
“Not together,” both Rosie and I blurt in unison.
Dad chuckles. “Uh-huh. Sure.”
27
ROSIE
Mr. Stone feeds us a simple but yummy dinner of rice with chicken, broccoli, and an herb dressing and is nice enough to offer me his bedroom. He says he’ll share the pull-out sofa with Beck in the living room. But I tell him that’s not happening. First, I’m not about to kick a grown man out of his own bed. And second, I’m not going to sleep in a random man’s bed. Besides, he’s a bachelor; who knows when the last time was that he washed his sheets.
We change into dry clothes. I hate that Beck doesn’t look bad dressed in his dad’s gray sweats and T-shirt while I feel like I’m drowning for the second time today, wearing an oversized shirt and plaid boxer shorts I’ve had to fold over a few times so they don’t fall off. Beck’s dad tells us good night and slips into his bedroom, leaving Beck and me alone.
“Forget the pull-out, we can each just take a sofa,” I suggest, pointing at the two that are placed in an L-shape in Mr. Stone’s living room.
“You’re joking, right?” Beck deadpans.
“Well, I’m sure as hell not sharing the pull-out with you, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
“I wasn’t suggesting it, but it makes more sense than the two of us scrunched up on the sofas. I mean, you might be fine, but not all of us are five foot nothing,” he grumbles. “I’ve got long legs.”
As if I need a reminder about how long his legs are. Like I don’t have memories of those very legs wrapped around me like a human pretzel after hours of making love in the bed we shared. Those memories practically haunt me every time I close my eyes and allow my mind to wander back to the years we were happily married.
I start grabbing the throw pillows and tossing them onto the coffee table. “I’m five five. How do you not remember that?” I mutter.
“That’s what you want to argue about here. Not the fact that we’re two grown adults who should be mature enough to sleep in the same bed, but instead we’re going to sleep on these cramped sofas?”
“Oh, I’m mature enough. But the question is, are you?”
“Do you not trust me? Is that it?”
“Can I?” I raise my brows at him.
“You don’t think I can possibly keep my hands off you? Gah, you’re so full of yourself.” He chucks a pillow at me, and it hits me in the chest. “The way you get under my skin and piss me off, you have nothing to worry about. But I don’t think that is what you’re worried about.”
I throw the pillow back at him, but it hits the floor instead with an unsatisfying thud. “What are you talking about?” I shove my hands on my hips.
He grabs one of the back cushions of the sofa and takes a step closer. I suck in a breath. “I think you’re worried that Iwon’ttouch you,” he challenges, his eyes not wavering.
My chin wobbles. “What? Why would Iwantyou to touch me?”
“Because. I think you remember just how good it felt. And you’re craving it again.”
I wave him off despite the humming between my thighs. “You’re delusional.”
