Page 16 of The Snuggle Is Real

Emily is tucked against me. Her cheek is on my chest, right over my heart, which is currently making a very poor case for my calm and controlled reputation. My arm is around her, my hand spread across the small of her back like it belongs there. And her leg is hooked over mine, tangled so thoroughly I can't extract myself without a plan and possibly a diagram.

I don't move.

She stirs.

Her eyelashes flutter against my T-shirt, and she lifts her head, just an inch, and looks up at me.

Big hazel eyes, sleepy and soft for exactly one second.

Then wide open. Shocked. Awake.

We stare at each other.

"Rule four," she whispers.

"Rule four," I agree.

Nobody moves.

"The rule says," she says slowly, "whoever wakes up touching the other has to pretend it didn't happen."

"Yes."

"We're both touching."

"I see the problem. But this didn’t happen, obviously."

"So who pretends?"

"Both of us."

"Then why haven't you let go?"

"Why haven't you?"

Her mouth opens. Closes. Her leg, I note, is still very much over mine. My hand is still on her back. My thumb, apparently operating without authorization, has started moving in a slow circle.

I force my thumb to stop.

Somewhere downstairs a door slams and a woman calls out that the biscuits are ready. On the nightstand, my phone buzzes against the wood.

We both look at it. It's my mother.

Breakfast at Dinky's at 8! Wear something festive!!!

Three exclamation points. Three leaves. That woman has plans.

“I have never worn anything festive in my life. She must have meant to send this to someone else.”

Emily reads it over my shoulder, because she is still, technically, lying on me. “I honestly don’t know what festive attire for breakfast at a diner called Dinky’s would entail, exactly. It’s a little early for sequins.”

“I think the wedding has gone to her head.” I pause. “I guess we should get up.”

"Okay," she says. "Okay. On three we execute rule four. One, two⁠—"

On three we separate like a controlled demolition. She rolls left. I roll right. I nearly go off the edge of the bed entirely and catch myself on the bedpost.

Emily sits up, shoves her hair out of her face, and says with enormous dignity, "Good morning. Nothing happened."