"I texted Matt," he says without looking up. "That jackass knew you were coming. Mom told him weeks ago."
"Yeah, about that," I perch on the bed. "So, there was some last-minute room shuffling because of wedding party drama."
"What?" His head snaps up. "There has tobe—"
"Nope. But it's fine!" I pat the couch cushion. "This is totally my size. It'll be perfect."
"Absolutely not." He stands up. "You're not sleeping on a couch for a week."
"Well, I'm not letting you sleep there either." I cross my arms. "The bed's huge. We could share."
Something flashes across his face, too quick to read, before he looks away. His eyes drift to the bed, lingering just a second too long. Heat creeps into my chest, tightening until it's almost hard to breathe, but before I can process it, he's already deflecting. "You probably kick in your sleep. Or hog all the blankets."
"Bold assumption for someone who's never shared a bed with me." The words slip free before I can bite them back, and the air between us shifts.
I watch his throat work, trying not to think about how the late afternoon sun catches his jawline. "You take the bed. I'll be fine on the couch." His voice comes out rough.
Caleb moves toward his bags, brushing past me in the small space between the bed and door. The familiar scent of his cologne—warm and woodsy—wraps around me; the same smell that always clings to my throw pillows after he crashes on my couch. I take a step back, suddenly needing air.
"I'm going to shower before lunch," I announce. "That okay?"
"Yeah, go ahead. Let me just dump my stuff in there and it's all yours." His eyes narrow. "I need to have some words with my dear brother about communication skills."
"Play nice."
"Never."
What.
The actual.
Fuck.
I stare at the text I just sent Matt, debating if I should add more creative swearing. Because this? This is next level meddling, even for him.
One night sharing a bed with Ivy? Easy. We've fallen asleep during movies more times than I can count. Personal space stopped mattering years ago.
But a whole week? In a room that feels like Cupid exploded in it?
That's different.
Because I see the way she looks at me sometimes, like she's trying to figure out if I meant something more. Like today at the airport, or when she caught me getting prickly about Austin at the stables. She thought I was jealous, and okay, maybe I was. But that's exactly why this whole setup is dangerous.Because Ivy doesn't do casual. She does forever, and I'm barely managing to keep my own life from imploding most days.
Now we're here, in this romance novel fantasy suite, and everything feels . . . loaded. One misstep and I'll give her the wrong idea. Make her think I can be something I'm not.
Dammit.
I can't do this to her. Can't play house for a week and then pretend none of it mattered. Because Ivy? She believes in soulmates, and destiny, and all that magical crap I always tease her about. I'm not ready for that. Wouldn't even know where to start with all that relationship stuff. Being present. Paying attention. Doing the things that actually mean something—like hearing what she says, being there when it counts, remembering the moments that matter.
I'm about to text Matt again when I spot Ivy's toiletry bag on that fancy-ass table by the window. She'll need that. Pretty sure her entire eighteen-step skincare routine is in there. I can practically hear her voice lecturing me about the importance of moisturizer like it's some life-or-death situation.
"Caleb, your skin will literally abandon your face if you don't use the right serum." Yeah, because that's definitely how biology works.
I grab the bag and head to the bathroom door. Knock once. Twice.
Nothing. Just the sound of running water and . . . is she humming "Basket Case"? My arm might still be numb from her using me as a pillow, but at least I got decent music out of it.
Screw it. I'll just slip in, drop the bag, slip out. No big deal.
