Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
He notices my heavy lids, his gaze catching mine, light flickering across his eyes. “You should get some sleep,” he says. “It’s been a long day.”
We haven’t done much of anything, unless you count swimming and splashing around in the water.
“I will.” I hesitate. “But, um. The couch is my bed . . . and we’re both camped out on it.”
So yeah.
Maverick shifts, glancing toward the dark hallway that leads to the bedroom. I see the tension in his shoulders, the way he tries to mask it as he sighs. “I’m in no rush.”
No. He wouldn’t be, would he? Not with the storm still cracking outside. The fact that this big, broad-shouldered man is rattled by thunder does something to me—warms something soft inside my chest. But the part that gets me even more? He’s trusting me to be here.
I open my mouth to reassure him, but then he yawns obnoxiously—and I giggle. “You faker. You’re exhausted.” I hesitate, biting my bottom lip. “Would it be weird if I—I don’t know—I offered to share the bed with you?”
His head tilts, eyes flicking up to meet mine. “Share the bed?” he echoes, making sure he heard me right. “My bed, you mean?”
Semantics. “Yeah,” I say, voice soft. “I mean, you don’t have to be alone in the storm; I’m not out here in the dark. We just . . .” I shrug. “Share the space.”
One side of his mouth kicks up into a slow grin. “Wow. What a tempting offer.”
I nudge his knee with mine. “It’s purely practical.”
He pretends to think it over. “So strictly survival based?”
“Exactly,” I say, trying not to smile too hard. “Hands to ourselves, no funny business. I swear I won’t even breathe in your direction.”
He pulls a face as if he hates that idea. “No breathing? Wow. You hate the dark more than I hate storms if you’re willing to give up breath.”
I laugh before yawning yet again. “I’m trying to sweeten the deal.”
“Fine, I accept. But only if you wear pajamas.”
I mean, Obviously we’re wearing pajamas.
Except . . .
Not expecting a roommate, the only pajamas I brought are skimpy. Sexy cute? Yes. Appropriate for sharing a bed with a very large, very warm, very male stranger? Debatable.
I snort. “Define pajamas.”
His eyebrows rise, clearly amused. “You know. Fabric. Coverage. Something that won’t land us in morally gray territory.”
Morally gray territory? Sounds delicious and exciting, if you ask me!
“Gotcha.” I stand, adjusting the blanket around my shoulders. “Come on, Captain Scaredy-Cat. Let’s go to bed appropriately next to each other without making it weird.”
Too late.
It’s already weird.
We go off in opposite directions, using the flashlights on our phones—him toward the bedroom, me toward my duffel near the bathroom, my makeshift camp since I have no bedroom.
I take my sweet time changing in the modest light, mostly because I’m trying to work up the nerve to walk to the shared bed wearing my clean sleep clothes: a thin white tank that clings in all the places it shouldn’t and satin lavender sleep shorts that could pass as underwear.
I pull on the bottoms. Brush my teeth in the dark. Pee.
When I step into the bedroom, he’s there—and he’s not under the covers yet.
Nope. Why would he be?
Maverick is standing at the edge of the bed, raking a hand through his hair, wearing nothing but dark boxer briefs that sit low on his hips, shadows hitting the V of his abs, and suddenly I forget how walking works . . .
Cool, cool.
My brain has left the chat.
He glances up, gaze doing a fast sweep of my body, from my bare legs to the nipples pressing against my tank top before he catches himself and glances quickly away, jaw clenching.
Looks toward the ceiling like it’s fascinating.
“I see we’ve both ignored the pajama policy,” he says at last.
“I layered myself up emotionally,” I say sweetly, climbing onto the opposite side of the bed and fluffing my pillow so it’s just the way I like it.
“Excellent,” he says sarcastically. “Emotional layering is the safest kind.”
We slide under the covers. There’s about eight inches of air and bedding between us, but it might as well be a neon-lit danger zone with flashing sirens and a sign that reads: No Touching, You Idiots.
Maverick folds his hands over his chest. I pretend to get comfortable and thank the Lord I can’t see the flex of his arms or the way the blanket dips at his hips because he’s warm and doesn’t want to cover all the way up.
Outside, thunder cracks. Inside, we lie still—two very, very overstimulated strangers pretending we are perfectly normal about this situation. Nothing to see here, folks! It’s just us, sharing a bed!
He doesn’t even like me! I annoy him. I’m squatting in his cottage, allegedly.
“Night,” I whisper.
“Night,” he murmurs. I swear, even in the dark, I feel his grin.