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His expression turned amused. “Not that you’re biased or anything.”
“Course not.” She rocked forward on her toes. “So…”
He released an audible breath, and she sensed victory. “So, I agree to a movie-night trial run. I could hate the genre.”
She smirked. “Or get nightmares from it.”
“True,” he said with a solemn nod. “If I start having to leave the lights on at night, I’m out.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure you’re the scaredy-cat type.” She flicked her hand toward him, indicating his general size. “You ooze frailty.”
He smiled a truly wolfish grin. “Delicate like a flower.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I do have a hard line though,” he warned. “No bug movies, especially spiders.”
She lifted her hands. “Got it. My hard line is torture movies.”
He looked surprised. “So the horror writer is afraid of some things, huh?”
She scoffed. “Hill, the horror writer is afraid ofall the things. That’s why I can write it so well. You can’t write horror if you don’t know fear.”
He frowned at her attempt to be flippant. But before Mr. FBI Profiler wannabe could dig deeper on that, she began to list movie categories they should sample first—slasher classics, possession movies, teen horror.
But she only made it halfway through the list before she could feel exhaustion hitting her. Hill got up to grab them another beer, and she settled back on the couch, but she didn’t remember him bringing it back.
By the time the sun started to peek through the blinds, she’d dozed off on the couch, a half-written list in front of her, and Hill had zonked out in her way-too-comfortable recliner.
He’d broken her rule. He’d slept over.
She’d broken her own. She’d let him.
