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I should demand she leave. Tell her to take shelter elsewhere. The Holiday Hotel down the street offers free cinnamon buns for breakfast.
Instead, I pick her up off the chair, plop her on the bed, and flip on the dim night table light. Then I grab the slippery silk cushions and form a perimeter along the middle length of the California king.
“It’s late and we’re probably too old to play pillow fort,” she says.
I almost smile, at her, at the memory of my brothers and I doing the same thing. “It’s a fortress,” I say, reinforcing the notion that she stays on her side. I remain on mine.
With a lazy salute, she stands on the far side of the bed, eyes heavy. “Sir, yes, sir.”
I click off the light and the mattress’s springs shift as we each claim our cordoned-off sides of the bed.
“Goodnight, Huckleberry,” Lally whispers.
Goodnight, Beautiful, but I’m not sure if I think this or if it’s already part of a dream.
Lally
CHAPTER 7
When I wake up in the morning, my eyes bolt open with alarm. It takes me a moment to remember where I am.
My body buzzes as if I had a coffee infusion, but I don’t dare move. The pillow wall remains firmly in place except one cushion at the bottom of the bed hangs off the end. Listening for Magnus on the other side, I hear nothing but the venting of the climate control in the room.
No snoring or the heavy breathing of sleep.
No rustling of sheets or the scratch of an itch.
No running water or bathroom sounds.
No Magnus?
I carefully push to sitting and peer over the side of the pillow barrier. The sheet is smoothed as if no amount of time out of the military will stop him from making his bed—or in this case, making it as neatly as he can.
The buzzing inside doesn’t settle when I realize I’m alone. The high hum of my pulse doesn’t relax. My heart tumbles when I recall our late-night conversation, spilling our thoughts like stars between us.
What I know about Magnus McGregor:
Until recently he was a Navy pilot
He’s traveled all over the world
Enjoys swimming, has three brothers
His voice, even in the darkness, is a deep, resonant song that I somehow know the words to
I wonder what kind of music he likes? Is he a dog or cat person? Horses? Birds? Lizards? You can tell a lot about a person by what kind of animal they identify with. What about ice cream? Tacos? Steak? I bet he likes a good cheeseburger.
There’s so much I don’t know about Magnus McGregor. His middle name, his happy place, does he read? He seems like his middle name is something simple like John, given his relatively unique first name. I imagine his happy place being somewhere flying in the clouds and I bet he loves books, especially historical accounts and modern-day action thrillers with a tease of espionage.
As I sit squarely on my side of the bed, I think about how the single-room mix-up could’ve been a disaster but was a pleasant surprise. I haven’t connected with someone like that in a long time. It’s refreshing.
It’s more than that.
The humming under my skin. The questions. The tumbling tummy.
I bite my lip as I realize what this is...
If I take the wordromanceand smoosh it together withanticipation, I get romantic-ipation.
