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“No. We’re going to sleep.”
We lie down, and somehow it’s a smooth thing. I’m wearing leggings and a soft shirt and no jewelry, and that’s why I’m so comfortable. Not because my head is pillowed on his chest andhis legs are tangled with mine, and I feel his slow, steady heart like a warm clock under my ear.
“I haven’t even washed my face,” I tell him. I’m still trembling, albeit more quietly. I’m a mess.
“That’s okay. Antonov won Coimbra 2019.”
I laugh shakily. “I . . . don’t think I can sleep.”
“Want a bedtime story?” His hand combs gently through the hair at my nape. “It’s called ‘Polgar Versus Anand, 1999.’ It starts with e4. c5.”
I groan. But I’m smiling when I ask, “And then?”
“Knight f3. d6. d3.”
“Mmm.”
“Yup.”
“And then?”
“Knight xd4. Knight f6. Knight c3 . . .”
I fall asleep mid- game— for the second time in my life held by someone, for the second time in my life held by Nolan Sawyer.
By 3:00 p.m. on the following day, Nolan has spoken fewer than fifteen words to me.
Why knight a5?
Could sacrifice the queen.
And my personal favorite:Getting a muffin— want one?
Maybe I hallucinated the previous night. Maybe our kiss was a dream. Maybe the way I woke up in his empty room, a mug of hot coffee on the bedside table— maybe I need a checkup to—
“What do you think, Mal?” Tanu asks. From her tone, not for the first time.
“About what?”
“This position. What would you do?” I glance at the board. We’re analyzing a Koch game from last year. Well,theyare analyzing. I’m ruminating.
“It’s weak. The left side could be exploited.”
“Yeah, that’s what Nolan said, too.”
I look up at him, and instantly flush. Because that’s apparently what I do now— stress over whether some dude I didn’t even sleep with isn’t interested in me anymore because I’m atotal mess, because I toss and turn at night, because my morning breath smells like the dumpster behind a fish restaurant.
This is uncharted territory. An entire new galaxy. I’m used to caring about what Mom, Darcy, Sabrina, Easton think of me. I have room for no one else, and—
“Would you agree, Greenleaf?” Emil asks.
Shit. “Sorry, with what?”
“With what Nolan said.”
Nolan’s eyes are unreadable. “He castled too late,” he repeats.
I glance at the board. “Or he shouldn’t have castled at all,” I say, pretending I’m not flustered.
