“You should have,” I groan. “This couch is awful.”
Ryder snorts, but doesn’t disagree with me.
“You can’t sleep here anymore, Rye Bread. I’m in pain after a nap. You can’t go to Milan withan achy body.”
“I’ll be fine, Marshmallow. You know those beds in the village aren’t much better. Your lumpy couch is toughening me up.”
I sigh, then stand on wobbly, tired feet and hold my hand out. I might not be able to verbalize the spiral in my head or the feelings in my chest, but I can do this one thing.
“Ryder, come to bed.” He opens his mouth to argue, but I stop him. “We’re adults. We can share a mattress. And you know Team USA puts all the married couples in their own rooms in the village anyway, so we might as well get used to it.”
“Are you sure?” His eyes flit around the room, like he’s scared of what will happen if they linger on me for too long.
“I’ll even build a pillow wall between us if that makes you more comfortable.”
With an overdramatic, beleaguered sigh, Ryder takes my hand and lets me help him to his feet.
“Fine, Marshmallow. I’ll share a bed with you. But you better stay on your side.” In the low glow of the television screen, I can see the smile he’s trying to suppress.
“Don’t be cute,” I bite back, but even I can hear that there’s nothing but delight in my tone. Somewhere deep inside, thirteen-year-old Mabel is screaming as I march us towards the bedroom,because holy fucking shit, Ryder Finch is sleeping in my bed.
Holy fucking shit…
Ryder Finch is sleeping in my bed.
“You can have the bathroom first,” I murmur when we make it down the hall. Ryder thanks me and when the door snicks shut behind him, I quickly survey my bedroom. I keep it tidy, thank god, but I still check for stray vibrators or discarded laundry with embarrassing stains. Once I’m sure nothing is going to jump out and humiliate me, I get to work un-making the bed and erecting The Great Wall of Pillows down the middle. I’m grabbing an extra blanket from the top shelf in my closet when Ryder emerges from the ensuite bathroom, smelling like his cinnamon toothpaste and rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. In a plain, threadbare t-shirt that stretches across his pecs, dipping low enough to show off a peek of mahogany colored chest hair and a pair of red and black flannel pajama pants that cling to his thick, athletic thighs, he looks like…
Well, he looks like a fucking slut.
I swear, men have it so easy. All they have to do to look sexy is throw on an old pair of pajamas, and women are ready to drop their panties.
Not that I’ll be dropping my panties. Nope. It doesn’t matter that heat has started to bloombetween my hips or that I have the unbearable urge to rub my thighs together like a cricket. There will be no panty dropping until I’ve put on my big-girl panties and had the tough conversations I’m avoiding. But now I’ve mixed my panty metaphors and I’m giving myself a headache.
“Which side is mine?” Ryder points to the queen-sized mattress, breaking through my migraine-inducing thoughts.
“Uh, I like the side by the window. I’m gonna,” I hike my thumb over my shoulder and then scurry to the bathroom, where I change into a pair of sleep shorts and a long-sleeve, waffle-knit top. I consider keeping my bra on, but even in my less-than-stable mental state, I know I’d rather risk giving Ryder a peek of my hard nips during the cold night than sleep in the stranglehold of a bra.
Looking in the mirror while I pull my hair into a bun on top of my head, I whisper a quiet pep talk to myself.
“You can do this, Mabel. You’ve been to hundreds of countries, you’ve spoken on dozens of panels, you perform feats of athletic prowess, spinning in the air with a piece of carbon fiber stuck to your feet for a living. You can share a bed with your accidental husband.”
I almost believe it, too, until I walk back into theroom to find Ryder sprawled in my bed, all long-legged and casual with an arm slung behind his head, his hair just begging me to run my fingers through it. The touch-starved little whore between my thighs weeps at the sight.
Fuck me sideways, this is going to be a long night.
“You’re not going to sleep undress, are you?” I ask as I crawl into bed, snuggling under my favorite blanket. An image of Ryder butt-naked on that Vegas hotel mattress flashes through my mind, and my thighs tense. At that moment, nothing about him in my bed was sexy. But now, the memory of all the perfectly sculpted muscles of Ryder’s posterior chain is making my body feel things that my mind isn’t quite ready for.
“No,” he snorts, turning toward me and propping his head up on his bent elbow. “I have better control over my subconscious self when my body isn’t swimming in alcohol. And I’m wearing my tightest briefs, just in case.”
I reach behind me to turn off the lamp on my nightstand, leaving the room mostly dark, save for the small light plugged in across from the bed.
“If you want to undress in your sleep, however, I will have no complaints.”
I grab a pillow from the wall between us and whack him in the head with it.
“I’m kidding, Marshmallow, I’m kidding,” he laughs, grabbing the pillow from my hands before I can hit him again. A glimmer of gold around his neck catches the glow from the night-light, giving me pause.
“I didn’t know you were a jewelry man, Rye Bread,” I say, reaching out to finger the chain, but Ryder pulls back, tucking the necklace back into his t-shirt. “Oh, come on, Tony Soprano, let me see your gold chain.”
