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“Michael is the worst.” Nash cringes as he watches the show.
“That's kind of the point. He’s supposed to remind us of the worst parts of ourselves,” I say, making him chuckle.
“Or he’s meant to annoy us because he’s exactly like all the people we can’t stand,” Nash counters, and I nod.
“That too. He really is awful, but I don’t know, I still love him,” I say, making Nash snort.
“Yeah, I bet you do. You have a soft spot for men who don’t deserve it.”
“Like who?” I ask in outrage.
“Like me,” he says softly.
I turn to look at him, frowning.
“My soft spot for you is well deserved. What are you talking about?”
“Not hardly,” he scoffs.
“Hey, don’t let the negative voices get to you. You’re a great guy. And a good friend.” I don’t have to say whose negative voice I’m talking about. “The voice in your head telling you that you’re not enough is wrong,” I add.
Nash shuts down like a device that's lost power. He grabs the remote, turns the TV off, and rolls over. We’re sharing the king-size bed, and there’s enough space between us for two people. I watch as he reaches over and turns the light off, clearly done talking.
I struggle to fall asleep, lying there for a long time, worrying about tomorrow.
Will this wedding be just as awful as dinner was? Fuck, probably! I wasn’t even there a full hour before that woman broke me.
How the fuck did Nash turn into such a good guy? Like seriously, all things considered, specifically his mother, Nash should be a raging asshole.
I’m worried about him. About tomorrow. Hell, about every time he has to face his mother for the rest of his life.
At some point, the darkness wins, and I fall asleep.
* * *
Gasping, my eyes blink open, and I struggle to sit up. There’s a weight on my chest, and I can’t move my arms. The darkness is like a void, sucking my calm away as anxiety creeps into my mind.
I’m working my way up to screaming when the weight on my chest shifts.
“Rose?” Nash’s silky, sleepy voice whispers, and I whimper. Relief floods my body as I realize I’m in the hotel. The weight on my chest is Nash. He’s…well, he’s shoved my shirt up my body, with his head resting on my chest. Snuggling my breasts.
“Really?” I manage to chuckle, so fucking relieved I’m not trapped in an overturned car that I’m not even upset with the man.
“I-I…” Nash trails off as he sits back, putting space between us. The light beside his bed blinks on, blinding me. I throw my arm up and over my eyes, groaning.
“Ah! Why?!” I protest as I slowly attempt to let the light back in. I blink several times before I can keep my eyes open without pain. “Uh, Nash?” I ask when I see he’s staring at me.
Staring at my exposed breasts and black boy shorts. I tug my shirt back down, smiling at the man who just cuddled my titties in his sleep. A fact he looks rather bothered by.
“Uh, maybe I should go sleep on the couch?” I offer. I sleep like the dead. Seriously, my mother used to complain that I looked like a corpse. I wasn’t worried I’d wake up wrapped around Nash, and I didn’t even think to worry that he’d cuddle me because of how adverse his reaction to being touched is.
“No,” he croaks, swallowing thickly.
“You sure? Because you look like you just woke up next to a known murderer. As if my boobs were the ones snuggling your face and not the other way around,” I add, making him frown.
“What did you want to say to her?” he eventually asks, and I lift a confused brow. The change in subject throws me off.
“Um. Who?” I ask as a yawn escapes.
