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“That’s not how I meant it.”
“No, I get it. You’re right. Let’s focus on the task at hand and not confuse anything. Let’s be friends.”
Her tone is anything but friendly, but I decide it’s best to end the conversation before I get myself in more trouble.
I shove my hands into my pockets and nod. “Good. We’re on the same page.”
I watch as Emma starts moving the large assortment of pillows from her bed to a bench beside it.
“What’s with all the pillows?” I ask.
Before I even get the question out, Emma’s flinging one of the pillows in my direction. I catch it right before it smacks me in the face.
“I collect them,” she says. “Collected. I haven’t gotten a new one in a long time. They’re from different milestones in my life. Family trips. Special holidays. As a child, I wasn’t big on stuffed animals but I loved getting new pillows. My parents kept it going through my teens and twenties.”
“My first time skiing.” She nods to the mountain scene on the one in my hand.Swiss Alpsit reads. “Piano recital.” She moves the piano key pillow off the bed.
“My cat, Abby,” there’s a pillow shaped like a cat with an orange Tabby stitched on the front. “She was with us for nearly twenty years.
“Graduating fashion design school.” She indicates the one with a pink sewing machine on it. “They’re kind of childish, huh?”
“That’s not what I was thinking at all.”
Even with the pillows removed, the bed looks small.
It’s a queen-sized bed. Not a king where you could roll to your side and barely notice if someone else is there.
“I can sleep on the floor,” I offer.
Her features soften. “No, it’s fine. We can share the bed.”
I clear my throat. “I’d prefer to sleep on the floor.”
For the briefest of seconds, her face goes slack. If I wasn’t staring at her, I’d miss the change, because in the next moment she’s smiling.
“Fine,” Emma says sharply.
She walks over to the closet, yanks a pillow and blanket out, then dumps them into my arms on her way into the bathroom.
“Suit yourself,” she says before slamming the door behind her.
Emma’s my fake wife, but I think I might really be in the doghouse.
CHAPTER13
Emma
A knock on the door pulls me out of a deep sleep. A sense of déjà vu washes over me from the wild night in Las Vegas. But this time when my eyes fly open, I find familiar surroundings. My bed. My room. New York. A momentary sigh of relief before the knock happens again followed by my mom’s voice muffled behind the door.
“Emma? Griffin? I’ve got a tray of breakfast for you here,” she calls.
I spring upright to peek over the bed. Griffin’s there on his back, shirtless, one hand rests on his chest while his other arm is bent with his hand tucked under his head. The blanket covering him has slipped below his belly button. If it weren’t for the waistband of his underwear peeking out, I’d think he was naked.
Don’t think about him naked, Emma.
My eyes zero in on his face. The sharp angle of his jaw and the two-day beard covering it. The visual has me recalling the feeling of his stubble scratching the sensitive skin of my inner thighs when he eagerly dove between them in Vegas.
Another thing I shouldn’t be thinking about.
