I turn, leaning one arm on the stone edge. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, tugging at her sleeves, waiting for me to answer. Trusting me to answer.
“Next,” I say, “we survive this week.”
Her lips part. Not in fear or doubt. In something else. Something dangerous that scares me way more than ice skating, tree lightings or cocoa tastings ever will.
She nods. “Okay.”
And just like that, I know. A week with her isn’t going to be nearly enough.
Chapter 9
Harper
The bed is enormous. But it’s still one bed.
Ethan pauses in the doorway, towel slung around his neck, dark hair damp, a single curl falling over his forehead. His flannel hangs loose over a fitted charcoal T-shirt that does absolutely nothing to calm my pulse. He looks like he walked straight out of a “Rugged Men of the Rockies” calendar.
“Shower’s nice and hot,” he says, in his signature deep voice.
“Thank you.” I stand too fast, wobbling. Smooth, Harper. I gather my pajama set consisting of soft leggings and a long-sleeve sleep shirt Ruby called “cozy but cute” — and head past him into the bathroom. When I close the door, I grip the counter, staring at my reflection.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself. “You’re fine. This is fine. It’s just one night in a big fancy bed with a man who could bench-press a Christmas tree.”
My reflection does not reassure me. I brush my teeth. Wash my face and change into the pajamas. I try not to think about Ethan on the other side of the door. When I exit, he’s standing by the fireplace, one hand braced on the mantle, staring into the flames. He turns and stops.
His eyes sweep over me once in a slow, controlled, devastating way. Heat flares up my neck.
“You good?” he asks.
“I think so.” I gesture vaguely to the bed. “Should we … uh … figure out how to … sleep?”
He nods. “Right. Ground rules.”
Ground rules. Yes, that’s good and logical. Except he sits on one side of the bed, and when the mattress dips under his weight, something warm and alarming twists low in my stomach.
He clears his throat. “You take the pillows. I’ll stay on my side. No crossing the middle.”
“What counts as crossing?”
He looks at me like I just asked for a map of the universe.
“Touching,” he says roughly. “Or … leaning. Or … drifting.”
“Drifting?”
“You know. In your sleep.”
I almost smile. “Do you drift?”
His ears tint a very faint pink. “I have no evidence of that.”
“So you do.”
“Harper.”
I bite back a laugh. He shifts like he’s uncomfortable. Which he probably is. He doesn’t fit here — not the lace throw pillows, not the sparkling champagne bottle, not the rose petalsscattered across the duvet. He looks like a wolf trapped inside a glittery snow globe.
“I can sleep on the couch,” he offers suddenly.
