Sarah’s grinning as she leads me into the bedroom, her arms full of blankets. The bedroom is pretty. Soft lavender walls that remind me of my own bedroom, a rocking chair in the corner, and a fuzzy blue-gray rug under the queen-size bed, which is draped with a quilt.
“High five to the never getting married club,” she says. “Me too.”
“You’re married.”
“It’s Beck. He’s too fun for this to count as actual marriage.”
“That isnotDavis.”
“Davis is fun. He’s just too reserved to show strangers that side of him, and if you’re not from the neighborhood, you’re a stranger.”
“So you’re a stranger to him?”
“I’m a level-two stranger. He tolerates me because I’m married to one of the people he’d trust with his life, and he has two more honorary nieces because of me. I’ve been with Beck for five years, and tonight’s the first time I’ve been at Davis’s house. Ever. Except it was a camper. And I’m pretty sure he doesn’t live full-time in a camper. I think. But still—first time. Tonight. And you’ve slept there. That makes you at least a level-three stranger.”
I set the backpack carrier with Peggy in it on the bed next to the pile of blankets. “Is that more stranger or less stranger?”
“Less stranger. Level one stranger is all people on the planet that he will never give the time of day to. Level two are those of us who know him by proximity to people he’s known his entire life. Level three is new. You’re the first level three stranger I’ve known in his life.”
People who like numbers sometimes make my brain fuzzy. Especially this late at night. “But he had a day job for a lot of years. Where he theoretically worked with strangers.”
“Level-two strangers. He trusted them as much as he had to.” She cocks her head, then grins at me as I hear it too.
Someone’s opening the door to the pool house.
“The fridge and cabinets are stocked. The, ah, nightstand is too. Help yourself to anything you find and let us—or Rafael—know if you need anything.” She squeezes me in a quick hug. “And I’m glad you’re safe. Ava would be heartbroken if she couldn’t see you anymore.”
It’s a nice sentiment, but all I hear isthe nightstand is stocked.
We have provided condoms for your enjoyment.
It’s something Tillie Jean would slip into casual conversation too.
No pressure, just—if you need them, they’re there.
We don’t need them.
We absolutely don’t need them.
There’s no more touching and kissing.
There’s no sex.
I’m too tired for sex.
Davis stops in the doorway, all long, lean muscles with a tattooed story all over his body, his butchered hair still hidden beneath the beanie, eyes tired but alert, looking like sin on a platter.
The good kind of sin.
My favorite kind of sin.
“Booby traps all set?” he asks dryly.
Yep.
Too tired for sex.
So tired.
