“I should go home.”
“And miss a chance to sleep on theSlumber Seven Thousand?”
“Is that a broomstick?”
“It’s my mattress.”
“Your mattress has a name.”
“I did a commercial for them two years ago in France.Slumber Seven Thousandis a rough translation.”
“I like you entirely too much.” Her lips curve up in a smile as her eyes drift shut.
I like you too much too. “Relatable. I like me too much too.”
“I’m getting up.”
“I see that.”
“I am.”
She’s not moving except to possibly sink deeper into the bed.
“Clearly,” I agree.
“This mattress is ridiculous.”
“It cures insomnia, hypertension, fallen arches, and bad breath.”
She giggles softly. “I believe it. I’m still leaving.”
“Uh-huh.” I climb off the bed long enough to kill the lights and shut the blinds, then I crawl under the covers next to her.
Not touching.
Simply next to her.
Watching her outline. Listening to her breathing even out and get deeper.
I don’t let women stay the night at my house.
But I’m glad Goldie isn’t leaving.
24
Goldie
I’min the middle of my usual morning stretch-yawn-pry-open-my-eyelids-in-bed routine when I realize something’s off.
It’s me.
I’m off.
I’m off because I’m not in my own bed.
My eyes fly open, and I sit straight up, the mattress beneath me adapting to make even sitting as comfortable as breathing.
Gray walls. Soft sunlight. City view. Black leather padded headboard. Wooden floor covered with a thick Turkish rug.
