The pages flip themselves back to the vacant quests, and I frown. “What do you want? Are you going to apologize now?”
It doesn’t.
InsteadPuppy Rescue 0/2appears.
I sigh. “Fine. I forgive you for your heinous behavior.”
A knock sounds at my door, so I jump, closing my journal.
“Lemonade?” Samson calls.
My sleepy heart rate picks up. “Yes?”
“I’m ready for bed. Are you?”
Cautious, I return my book to my bag and make my way to the door, opening it to find Samson—bare chestout—filling the frame. “I…uh…yes. I am?”
He nods. “Okay.”
My brain restarts its assessment of that word, confuddled to the max. The spikes of confusion peak when, as Samson turns, he takes my hand, and totes me into his room.
Realization ofeverythingdawns on me moments too late to fully processwhat I, in my sleepiness,have done.
This is equally the best and worst thing to ever have happened.
My goodness.
I have signed myself up to be Samson’s platonic teddy bear until I say otherwise.
How am I even supposed to feel about this?
I…I don’t think I’m ever going to sleep again.
His arms close around me while I’m wrestling with the inevitable: death by sleep deprivation.
I think I have approximately two weeks. That’s fine.
Two weeks of sheer bliss is more than enough.
More than I would have gotten in Florida.
More than my astigmatism wants for me.
Speaking of…did I hallucinate Samson taking off my glasses and putting them on his nightstand?
Not feeling them on my face, I squint through the pitch dark.
Hm.
Another of life’s great mysteries.
The heat from Samson’s skin soaks into mine as his lips brush my forehead and he cuddles. “Thank you for this…” he whispers into my hair.
I swallow my heart, but the pound of my pulse remains lodged in my throat. “No. It’s no problem, Shoulders.”
“I can’t explain how much it means to me.” He squeezes. “I’ve never had someone…” He frees a breath. “I already told you. I guess I never realized how much I craved the connection, though.”
The connection.
