Looks toward the ceiling like it’s fascinating.
“I see we’ve both ignored the pajama policy,” he says at last.
“I layered myself up emotionally,” I say sweetly, climbing onto the opposite side of the bed and fluffing my pillow so it’s just the way I like it.
“Excellent,” he says sarcastically. “Emotional layering is the safest kind.”
We slide under the covers. There’s about eight inches of air and bedding between us, but it might as well be a neon-lit danger zone with flashing sirens and a sign that reads:No Touching, You Idiots.
Maverick folds his hands over his chest. I pretend to get comfortable and thank the Lord I can’t see the flex of his arms or the way the blanket dips at his hips because he’s warm and doesn’t want to cover all the way up.
Outside, thunder cracks. Inside, we lie still—two very, very overstimulated strangers pretending we are perfectly normal about this situation. Nothing to see here, folks! It’s just us, sharing a bed!
He doesn’t even like me! I annoy him. I’m squatting in his cottage, allegedly.
“Night,” I whisper.
“Night,” he murmurs. I swear, even in the dark, I feel his grin.
“Stop breathing weird.” I grumble, irritated at his good humor.
“I amliterallybreathing like a normal person.”
“Yeah, well—it’s loud.” A distracting reminder that he’s present and inches away, and good looking.
There’s a beat of silence. Then there’s a pull from the sheets; a rustle coupled with the shift of weight on the mattress.
He turns toward me.
I stay on my back—waiting—staring toward the ceiling and pretending my heart isn’t thudding like a teenage girl’s in a sleepover game of seven minutes in heaven.
“Question,” he whispers. “What happens if I roll over in my sleep and accidentally brush your knee or something?”
Pfft. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” He sounds skeptical. “Not even a warning elbow to the ribs?”
“Depends how much quote, unquote, ‘brushing’ is happening.” I’m smiling in the dark now, too, despite my best efforts to remain unaffected by his sexiness.
God, I am so, so weak.
I’ve known this man for two days, and hookups are not my style.
They’re Not! Stop Judging Me!
I sniff the air and inwardly groan; he smells amazing. His body is warm—a blazing inferno. He’s not even touching me, and I’m fighting the urge to roll closer like some affection-starved idiot.
Also?The bed is not as big as it looked when it was empty.In fact, it’s shrinking by the second.
Another flash of lightning flickers through the room. For one brief second, I can see his eyes watching me, hand tucked beneath his chin, biceps bulging.
The flash fades, plunging us back into darkness.
I huff. “This is dumb.”
I hear his brows rise. “What is?”
“This!Us.Lying here. Not sleeping.” Not touching. Not doing anything but whispering like two teenagers at summer camp. A rumble of thunder punctuates my sentence.
