I wouldn’t wish sleeping on this ground to my worst enemy. Which means even two days ago, I couldn’t in good conscience have asked Cole to move to the floor. And now?
Woof.
I’m anxious, yes, to share a bed with a man who slid me off his lap last night.
I’m terrified, too, I’ll break and ask him if he was actually the Sinclair brother who saved me, and if so, why he’s been lying to me for years.
Has he been lying?
Or has he just never corrected me?
I hate nuance and the unknown. I have too active an imagination for that.
It is the twenty-first century, so I could sleep on the floor and delay the inevitable for a little longer, but I don’t want to risk becoming a casualty in some horror movie where the ground draws life from unsuspecting victims. So awkward yet thrilling bed sharing it is. Sold.
Cole is currently changing in our bathroom, giving me free rein to over-analyze every thought spiraling in my head. Like what does Cole usually wear to bed? I fell asleep before him last night and he woke up before me and changed, so I have no clue. Does he wear a shirt? Pants? Is he an “only his underwear” kind of guy? What am I going to do if I have to sleep next to an almost naked Cole Sinclair?
Curl up in a ball and cry? Probably.
And oh, dear god, is that spot by the dresser ketchup or blood? I yelp and dive under the covers, completely ignoring whether I checked for anything lurking beneath them.
Which is totally fine. I am chill.
Okay, but what if there’s a spider? Or a family of spiders?
Or like…a cult of spiders? Maybe the blood on the floor is from one of their ritual sacrifices. Maybe I’ll be their next victim.
With extreme urgency, I whip the covers off to inspect the sheets. Just as I do, the bathroom door swings open and Cole walks out, illuminated by the harsh overhead light.
I swallow. A snug black thermal clings to every ridge and muscle of his torso and flannel pants hang low on his hips. Mainly, he’s wearing clothes, and that’s super cool, and not disappointing at all, because it would be problematic if I was disappointed and I’m not problematic.
Facts.
Except I’m very much problematic, because I’m lying to my parents about dating Cole Sinclair when I didn’t even like him a few days ago, but somehow that’s better than telling the truth to my usually very supportive and loving parents.
Oh my god, so about those spiders.
Cole rakes a hand through his tousled dark brown hair and then, under a pair of very damning thin gold framed glasses, his eyes land on me.
Me, on my hands and knees, patting the sheets down like some deranged…sheet checker…my backside in the air. His eyes widen, and he clears his throat, his infamous smirk creeping across his face. “Whatcha doing?”
“Checking for spiders,” I reply, trying to sound casual, like this is totally a normal thing to do and not one of those moments where I’ve fallen victim to my giant, overactive imagination.
“Ah.” In two long strides, he’s at the bed. His hands move over the sheets in the areas I can’t reach. “Looks good to me. Why don’t you hurry up and get under the covers before you catch your death?”
“I’m not that cold,” I insist, though the goosebumps on my arms and the shiver racing down my spine beg to differ.
His eyes flicker downward, deliberately slow. “Your chest would suggest otherwise,” he says motioning for me to lie down.
Heat floods my cheeks, and I cross my arms defensively over my camisole, sinking back on the bed.
“Why—why are you looking there? Aren’t you supposed to be a gentleman or something?”
“Am I? Funny, I thought I was the son of Satan. My mistake.”
I reach for the covers and Cole adjusts them until I’m tucked in, cocooned in a blanket that should be terrifying but is somehow cozy. “Good?” he asks, and I nod, managing a quiet, “Thank you.”
“Wearing a silk pajama set in a room that’s maybe forty degrees? What were you thinking?” he says with a shake of his head, reaching over me and grabbing a pillow from his side of the bed. My breath stutters as his chest brushes mine.
