“There’s some of my dad’s clothes in the laundry,” I say, walking past him. “I’ve been planning to donate them, so I was washing them. You’ll find something that fits.”
“Sure you don’t mind?”
“All yours.”
“All right. I’ll see you upstairs in a minute.”
I turn and head up the stairs, quickly followed by Sherlock, who, leather jacket long forgotten, watches me like he’s waiting for an explanation.
“Don’t give me that look.” I sigh, collapsing onto the bed beside him.
Suddenly, spending the night together feels like the most intimate, nerve-racking thing in the world, and my mind spins with everything I haven’t considered. What if I roll over and accidentally brush against him? What if my hair ends up all over his face? What if I snore?
Oh God, what ifhesnores? Do I even know how to sleep next to someone else? I’m used to stretching out with Sherlock curled somewhere around my feet, his snooty little huffs the only sound I ever need to worry about.
Just thinking about lying there in the dark, trying to settle down and relax with Rafael right next to me—relaxbeing the key word here—it’s almost laughable.
Besides, do I want him to see me in my regular mismatched pajamas? The ones I don’t care about getting cat hair on, the ones that are just a soft oversize T-shirt with that faded print of a cartoon llama and sweats with a hole at the hem?
Should I take out the sexy ones Paige got me for my birthday a few years back?
I open the drawer, debating. I think there’s still a tag on them, and putting them on would probably send the wrong message, wouldn’t it? That this isn’t “just sleep,” at least not to me.
I settle on my regular pajamas as if I’m gearing up for a battle of wills—with myself. This is fine. It’s just a bed. I tug at my faded llama T-shirt, eyeing the poor cartoon creature as though it’s offering me courage. Right. The llama stays.
There’s a knock at the door, and before I can talk myself out of it, I call, “Come in.”
Rafael steps inside. I recognize the gray T-shirt from the pile, and it’s slightly loose on him, the sleeves hugging his upper arms while the rest drapes down over his shoulders. He’s traded his jeans for a pair of black athletic shorts that hang low on his hips, revealing the sharp cut of his thick thighs. Ink curls up his leg and disappears under the fabric: a skeletal hand holding a bouquet of roses on one leg, a minimalist hummingbird mid-flight on the other leg, and a band of barbed wire wrapping around just above his knee amongmanyother tattoos. He looks like some model from a magazine shoot titled “The Bad-Boy Pajamas.”
His gaze moves down to my shirt and the little llama, and to my relief, he seems more charmed than judgmental.
“You have thigh tattoos,” I mumble, dazed.
“Uh-huh.” He lifts his shorts, showing me more ink. On one thigh, there’s a matchbook, a single flame rising from the torn edge. On the other, there’s a half-finished chessboard disappearing into negative space, and near the hem, barely visible, there’s a tally of five slashes inked onto the inside of his thigh. “Chest too,” he says, voice low and smug. Then, with a cocky tilt of his mouth, “Like ’em?”
Oh, Ilikethem. His body looks like a canvas painted with his favorite art. And those thick, muscular thighs… Jesus. Maybe I should have worn my sexy pajamas.
“The broccoli T-shirt,” I blurt out.
“Huh?”
I point at the T-shirt he’s wearing, hoping I’m not as flushed as I feel. “My dad, he… he used to wear that when I was a kid. My mom had one, too, and they’d put them on every time Ethan refused to eat his veggies, and they’d do this stupid broccoli dance.” I shake my head at the memory of my mom and dad wiggling their arms in the weirdest performance. “We ended up eating our vegetables just to make them stop.”
He pinches the big head of broccoli on the front of his T-shirt. “Should I—”
“No, you don’t need to change.”
“I was going to ask if I should dance, actually.”
“Rooo,” Sherlock interjects from the bed, his little growl effectively cutting through our conversation. He sits upright, watching Rafael with narrowed, accusing eyes.
“Oh, hey, Sherlock.” Rafael extends his hand toward him cautiously, palm open. “Guess we’ve got to win each other over, huh?”
Sherlock edges forward, sniffing Rafael’s hand with all the suspicion of a tiny security guard. He finally deigns to tap his hand with a dismissive paw, and when the nails make Rafael flinch, I warn, “Sherlock, claws in, or you’re getting the boot.”
“It’s okay,” Rafael says, chuckling as he rubs his hand. “I understand.”
I arch a brow. “Yeah? You’re territorial, too?”
