At that, I groan, but it’s undercut by the fact that I can’t stop laughing. It’s only getting louder now, reverberating against the walls of the small space.
“I’m actually pretty impressed you were able to stop yourself without passing out from sexual frustration. That’s not usually how that goes.”
I shove him on the bed. “Stop,” I beg as I struggle for breath.
His body shakes, and even in the darkness, I can just make out the edges of the silent laughter tightening his eyes. “Why is this so funny to you? It’s true. There are, like, three things I know I’m good at, and this…” He takes pity on my respiratory system and lets his sentence go.
He stops teasing me, and when I regain control of my breathing, he rolls to his other side and settles into his pillow. “We good then?” he asks.
“Yes. We’re good,” I answer, wiping at my eyes.
“Good. Night, Beekman.”
“Night, Powell,” I say back, rolling into the mattress crack. I try not to examine the disappointment gathering in my throat.
The minutes stretch, and just when I’m crossing into the liminal space between asleep and awake, I hear Ethan’s low voice against my ear.
“Next time,” he hums, “it’ll be because it’sme. It’sus. Okay?”
“Mm-hmm.” My mind searches for the perfect pithy thing to say next, but I’m tired and that’s more of Ethan’s thing anyhow. Instead, I listen to his slow, sleepy breaths, matching his deep exhales with my own until the fatigue takes me away.
Chapter 12
Legally Blonde–ing All the Way to Jail
Sunday, Now
The banging onthe rear window wakes me up.
“Police!” the voice calls out.
“Huh?” I murmur, my mind peeling away from the edges of sleep. It takes me a few seconds to realize where I am and that I’m completely cocooned in Ethan. His nose is on my neck. His hand is resting on my stomach. His knee is on my thigh like I’m his Charley-sized body pillow. Ireallytry not to dwell on how good it feels.
“Ethan,” I whisper-shout. “Ethan.” I shove his muscled thigh, and that seems to do the trick. His groan is cut short by the fuzz pounding on the side of his house.
There’s another bang at the window, and Ethan’s eyes finally pinch open. “Shit. Can you pull up the window shade and check who it is?”
“He said he was the police.” My brain, struggling to come online, finally registers that Ethan’s shirtless.
Ethan is shirtless in bed with me, toned and tanned, casually rubbing a knot out of his opposite shoulder as if this isn’t the strangest wake-up call he’s ever had.
The banging gets louder somehow. He hangs his torso off the bed and reaches for the floor.
“Just make sure he is who he says he is before we open the door.” The prospect that the man outside may not be a cop at all but, rather, a man impersonating a cop for reasons I now have no choice but to internally list (in a Keith Morrison voice) in order of gruesomeness sends shock waves up my spine.
Another knock jostles the mattress. “What exactly is your plan if he’s not who he says he is?” My tone is both groggy and razor-sharp.
He sits back up and shrugs on a T-shirt. “I’ll handle it.”
I pause to assess whether his easy posture is comforting or if he’s one of the delusional 50 percent of men who believe they could land a plane. For reasons I cannot explain, I arrive at the former and rip the magnetic blackout curtain from the back window.
The morning light is blinding. By the time my eyes adjust, three men are staring back at me: an elderly Black man, a young white man in a Minnesota Wild muscle tee, and a very real police officer.
Ethan shoots out of bed, knocking a worn leather notebook to the floor in the process. “So he is who he says he is,” he observes, murmuring out the side of his friendliest, most puppy-eyed smile. He gives our audience a head tilt of acknowledgment and makes his way to the side door. “Just let me do the talking, ’kay?”
“Seriously, what was your plan?”
“Bear spray,” he tells me before sliding open the door with a hard yank.
