There’s a momentarily lapse in my desire to fight to the death like we’re two gladiators. I look at him. Like, really look at him. Something in his dark hazel eyes changes. It’s like they’re waving a little white flag.
Before I can process it, Ben knocks again and enters. He’s holding—surprise, surprise—a stack of papers.
“Oh, Ash, I’ve got this for you. Have a read before I come in to wire you up,” Ben says, handing me said papers. “I’ll be back in ten.” He closes the door behind him.
I look down at the papers. The title on the cover sheet says:Cognitive Behavioral Therapy to Reduce Sleep-Interfering Arousal/Activation.
OH MY GOD. He studied the fucking tapes.
I can feel Xander peering over my shoulder, scanning the paper. Well, that’s one way to end a fight.
“Ben studied the tapes,” I say, holding up the paper and turning to face Xander.
“He probably made a spreadsheet about it.” Xander is wearing a full-body smile. It seems the fight is forgotten for now because he’s filled with utter delight.
“Yeah, that’s much better. I’ll for sure be able to look Ben in the eye the next time I see him,” I say, shaking my head.
I head over to the end of the bed, dramatically turn around, and let myself fall backward. I stare up at the ceiling and finally notice how exhausted I am. Sure, I might not be able to do insane maneuvers on a pole, but I can perform mental gymnastics with the best of them.
Only twenty-eight days to go, I remind myself.
I sigh. It’s going to feel like a fucking lifetime.
CHAPTER NINE
I open my eyes with a jolt, the nape of my neck slick with sweat. I’m surrounded by darkness, and it feels like the weight of the blanket is suffocating me. Kicking at the blanket does nothing to remove it, so I throw my hands at it, pawing it like I’m trapped in a nutshell. I finally manage to find sweet freedom as the blanket balls up discarded to one side of the bed.
Sitting up, I realize my neck isn’t the only thing sweating. I’m drenched. I reach for my top, ready to remove it for some sweet relief until I hear a familiar voice remind me that I’m not in bed alone. Reason number take-your-pick as to why sleeping over is never a good idea.
“You okay?” Xander says. His soft voice floats across the blanket fort that I’d made in my desperate escape. My hands pause at the hem of the flannel I’m wearing. And the worst summer sleepwear award goes to …
The mattress moves under Xander’s body and then the lamp on his bedside table is on. In the glowing light, I notice Xander’scurls have gone even more rogue than normal, which I didn’t think possible. Just pure mussed. There’s stubble that’s clearly been growing since five o’clock. He looks so relaxed it’d be easy to mistake him for someone who just woke up.
My body flushes hot again. And not because I woke up wearing flannel. I start moving the hem of the flannel back and forth, trying to create a makeshift fan. It’s not working.
“The air conditioner conked out an hour ago,” Xander says as his eyes land on my cheek where I feel a clump of damp hair sticking to it. He lifts his hand up, like he’s about to move the hair off my face himself, like it’s instinct. I bet he does it with all the girls. I freeze. Definitely instinct. He must think twice about it because he redirects his hand to his own hair. Running it through the curls. Somehow, it’s even hotter than if he touched me.
We stare at each other for a moment before Xander gets up and reaches into his bag. That’s when I notice he’s replaced his sweatpants and hoodie for boxers and a T-shirt. He’s wearingsleepwear. In front of me. A total stranger.
I start to feel lightheaded. This is exactly the kind of intimacy I avoid. This is exactly why I bail afterward. This is exactly why I don’t stick around and snooze. Wearing your … Captain America—really? I blink twice just to make sure. Yep. Really—boxers breed the kind of closeness I save for Christmas with my mom. Not old friends-turned-flames. Fucking labels.
He rummages around and then pulls out a white T-shirt and boxers, which he holds out to me. “Here,” he says, his eyes searching mine.
I narrow my eyes.
“They’re clean,” he says. He shoves them toward me and tilts his head to the side as if to say,Come on, take them.
I study the clothes. They are so inviting. So cooling. So comfortable. So weather appropriate. Even if they are part of the Marvel Cinematic Universe. I imagine the cotton, oh, sweet cotton, how I miss thee, soft against my skin. I want to get out of this fucking flannel so bad and wear them. More than I’ve wanted anything in my entire life. I want them so bad I could cry.
I reach out as he hands me his clothes.
I don’t even have to ask him to turn around. He faces the wall. I can’t help but notice his thighs are decorated with a smattering of tiny tattoos that weren’t there the last time I saw this much of his skin. I see a wave. And scales of justice. And there’s a molecular tattoo that wraps around his thigh. I can’t make it out. Unless I plan on getting up close and personal. Which I do not. And so, I remove the flannel and replace it with his T-shirt. And boxers. They smell like Juicy Fruit. I breathe it in a little too deeply. The long slow steady breath grounds me. The T-shirt is soft. It might even be organic. I’m so relieved. It comes out as a sigh.
“Have you officially changed?” he says, repeating the same way I spoke to him yesterday after what I will forever refer to as The Peep Show. I look over at him and give myself a few seconds to remember just how strong I know his thighs are.
“I am officially changed,” I say with the enunciation of proper British nobility and the mind of a filthy chimney sweep.
He turns around and his eyes flicker all over my body, not sure where to settle. A shiver follows behind his eyes, like he’s physically touched me. “Better?”
