“Just for tonight. We’ll get you a new one tomorrow.” He makes a show of scooting over to make room for me and pats his mattress.
The problem is, Mads is huge—easily a foot taller than me, all broad shoulders and long limbs that take up more space than he probably realizes. His bed isn’t built for that kind of body, let alone two people.
If I agreed to lie down beside him, there’d be no space left. Not a single inch. Every move would put me against him.
My brain knows this is a terrible idea, but for some reason, it still runs the math anyway, tracing exactly how close we’d be. And I hate myself for even entertaining it.
I eye him, giving him a dissatisfied look. “I’d rather sleep in the shower.”
“It’s clean now. You’re welcome.”
“Mads. We both have practice at the ass crack of dawn. I want to go to sleep.” I try to be reasonable. I really do.
But the whole practice in the morning thing is the exact reason I know he’s not going to offer to sleep on the couch, so I don’t even wait for him to respond.
I huff, march back into the bathroom to actually put clothes on now that I’ve moved on from the bag situation, then over to my traitorous, half-broken bed, and yank the mattress off the frame with the righteous fury of a woman scorned.
It flops to the floor and immediately curls at the edges, because, of course, it’s hitting the edge of the dresser on one side and the foot of Mads’s bed on the other, like the universe personally arranged this room to spite me.
The layout is trash. There’s literallynowherefor the mattress to lie flat unless it’s on the damn frame.
Behind me, Mads lets out the world’s most annoying laugh. I whip around, breathless, my wet hair sticking to my face, and he’s just lying there onhisfully functional bed, arms folded behind his head.
“Don’t even think about offering to help,” I warn.
“Wasn’t going to,” he says, grinning. “This is better than Netflix.”
I hate this apartment. I hate this night. I hate this man.
And I hate that he’s kind of hot when he’s smug.
I give up.
Truly, cosmically, soul-deep give up.
I sigh, grunt, and shove the mattress back onto the warped frame. It makes an awful scraping sound and slumps in the middle again. Then I sit on the edge of the frame, elbows on my knees.
Behind me, I hear Mads shift. “Tell you what,” he says, and I don’t even look up, just groan softly into my hands.
“Whatnow?”
“Let’s make it fun.”
I turn just enough to see the wild gleam in his annoying blue eyes.
“Rock-paper-scissors,” he says, holding up a fist. “If you win, I take the couch and you get my bed.”
“And ifyouwin?” I ask warily.
He grins, all teeth and audacity. “We share my bed.”
I stare at him for a beat. He wiggles his fingers. “Best of three?”
“Fine,” I say, crossing my arms. “Rock-paper-scissors.”
“And…loser does laundry all week,” he says, already rolling up his sleeves. “In a thong.”
I glare at him.
