You can hear it in the lack of conviction behind her words.
“You ever have sleepovers when you were a kid?” I ask her.
“Are you asking me to have a sleepover?”
“No, I’m asking if you ever did it. I didn’t. Parents wouldn’t let me.”
She stares at me for a beat like she’s debating if this is a stall tactic to keep her from leaving—of course it is—and then she pulls her knees to the side and angles further onto the bed.
Still totally naked.
Who in his right mind would want her to leave right now?
“I didn’t either,” she says. “Even for birthday parties. If it was a sleepover, my parents picked me up by ten. Even through high school.”
“We missed out.”
“Completely.”
“Total shame.”
“I need to go home, and you need to get your rest before another long day of training.”
“You have meetings first thing tomorrow?”
“Not until almost noon, but I need to pack books for my storage unit.”
My heart hiccups.
Swear the damn thing does.
And it pisses me off.
Goldie’s myfriend.
I can want myfriendto stay longer since she’s moving away in nine days.
Not a hiccup that time.
Something bigger.
Harder.
Unwelcome.
Also?
She said she needs to go, but she’s not moving from her spot.
“How many books do you have?” I ask.
She flares her eyes and grimaces. “Close to a thousand.”
“Athousand?”
“Maybe not quite that many, but close.”
“A thousand fucking books.”
