Two minutes later, I turn back to face his side.Shit. We haven’t made a plan about extra bedding for him to use on the sofa. And it’s not as if we can ask for it…
I get up and go in search of some extra linen in the walk-in closet. It’s quite spacious and serves as a storage place too. Thank the Pope there’s an extra linen set and a blanket on hand. I take it, fold it neatly, and lay it on the sofa that looks the most comfortable, then add a pillow from the bed to the stack.There. Housekeeping perfection. I would know; I’ve worked that branch on weekends and holidays hands-on for four years, from the most standard double room all the way to a St Chalamet penthouse suite.
I clamber back into bed and wait, listening for Tristan’s footsteps over the gentle whisper of the waves. If the bugs become too much, there might be a point during the night when he decides to get behind the mosquito net and into bed with me. I turn my back on the light, heart pulsing with the possibilities of that going on long term.Nope. Nope. Nope.
My head is still chanting those words when I wake up. The first morning light filters through the dark forest surrounding our cottage, and I sit up and look around, confused. The other side of the bed is untouched, and there’s no sign of Tristan. No lightsare on, so he must have switched them off last night. I reach for my phone on the nightstand and check the time. It’s just after five in the morning.
A soft groan floats over to me, and I sit straighter. “Tris?”
“Hmm?”
That doesn’t sound good. “You okay? Slept well?”
“It’s been a night of blood donation.”
Eh…“What?”
“I might need coffee so my body can have some liquid for hematopoiesis.”
I have no clue what he’s saying, but I got the coffee part. I get out of bed and wrangle the mosquito net for a second before I find the slit and get out. I go over to where Tristan is lying on the sofa, a flat sheet covering his stomach and thighs but the rest of him naked. He’s lazily scratching his chest, eyes closed, dark circles under his eyes.
My heart stills.Oh hell. He looks like he has measles.
“You got chowed.”
He opens one eye. “You think? Itches like Satan’s crotch.”
“Don’t scratch! You’re only going to make it worse.”
“Pfft.” His fingers move from one bite to the next. “Did you sleep okay?”
“Yes.” I slept like a log and wasn’t annoyed by a single mosquito. He struggles up, and now I get to see his back. I suck in a breath.Ouchy ouch ouch, itchy itch itch.
“You’re welcome, babes. Anything for you.Really.”
For the first time, I don’t protest about him calling mebabes. “I’ll make coffee,” I say, guilt nagging at my conscience. “Did you bring Afterbite or anything?”
“Nope.”
God. This whole situation pounced on us so quickly, we didn’t properly prepare. “Maybe they’ll have something in the boutique or in their first-aid kit.”
Tristan says nothing, and it’s quiet as I make coffee. With two mugs in hand, I find him leaning against one of the supporting poles in a pair of sleep shorts, still scratching. Through the vegetation, the sea is a slate grey brushstroke on the horizon. The ever-present breeze stirs the palm leaves, but the heat of the day is a promise nothing is going to break.
“Here.” I hold out Tristan’s coffee.
“Thanks.” His stubble is thick and about the only place he isn’t littered with bites. “Walk with me?” he says as he meets my gaze.
“I’m sorry about all of that.” I wave at his body in general, trying not to stare at his naked chest. It’s warm, yes, but it would’ve been harder on those skeeters if he’d worn a T-shirt. And it would be easier onmetoo, not living with his bare chest in my face.
“Not making this easy on ourselves, are we?” With that, he stalks off, leaving it to me to follow him or not.
Of course I don’t stay behind, already feeling like total shit about the situation. We walk down to the beach as the sun’s first rays shimmer over the sea. A flock of black birds swoops up as we come closer, and with a groan, Tristan sits down. I follow suit, and in silence we watch as the colors change rapidly around us as day dawns.
“I’m sorry about last night. If you want, I can take the sofa tonight,” I offer quietly.
Tristan sighs, and thank God it isn’t an awkward, unwelcome silence between us. It’s one of resignation.
“No. Imagine your skin—won’t let anything take a bite out of you, Lexi.” He chuckles as his hand comes up to stroke my hair away from my cheek.
