Time for a well-earned nap.
* * *
Josh ignoredthe alarming sound of furniture shoving around above him. He ignored the growl of his vacuum cleaner.
But the silence that followed was harder to ignore.
He was trying to build a list of restomod options for Betsy, and all he could think about was how unhinged he’d become about Monica—including, but not limited to, the fact that he was building a fucking list of ways to turn Betsy into a sleeper car for non-existent drag races he wasn’t going to enter in.
He was only wearing a t-shirt and work pants, not full coveralls, and the garage wasn’t well-insulated, but he was sweating.
He dragged his shirt against his torso, then snapped his notebook shut.
Maybe he should just go upstairs and see what was wrong, why she’d stopped whatever angry re-arranging she was doing.
And probably have a shower. Alone.
He laughed at himself. A desperate, groaning kind of laugh. After the way she stood toe-to-toe with him, calling him on his bullshit, it was definitely going to be alone.
For the rest of his miserable life.
Another self-inflicted injury. He was batting a thousand against himself in this whole “sleepover with the wife”.
He locked up the garage and headed upstairs. Opened the door—and did a double take.
His couch was missing.
No, not missing.
It was…on a weird angle. And shoved in the corner.
But it made his apartment look bigger, in a strange way. And the sleeping woman stretched out across it definitely made his apartment look better.
Hell, she actuallymadeit better.
And he’d been a jerk to her, again.
Quietly, he grabbed a blanket and covered her up. She squirmed, and he froze, but she stayed asleep.
Exhaling, he tiptoed away.
* * *
Monica wokeup to a mouthwatering scent.
Stretching, she blinked her eyes open. Josh was in the kitchen, cooking. He’d changed, and a soft-looking sweater stretched over his broad back. Dark jeans clung to his legs. Thick work socks covered his feet, and his hair looked freshly washed.
It was a scene from her long-ago fantasies of a domestic life of bliss, and it took her breath away.
She couldn’t let her heart—or her memories—go there. Her head knew would only hurt.I don’t want to love you.
Taking a deep breath, she asked, “What time is it?”
He glanced back. “Six.”
She’d slept the entire afternoon away. She tried to scramble up off the couch, but her back and neck protested so hard she gasped and froze.
Josh put down the wooden spoon he was holding and crossed to her, his face tight with concern. “What is it?”
