“Are you…trying to orchestrate a custody agreement for bedsharing?”
He nods. “And I think you’ll find the distributionveryamicable.”
“You didn’t sleep last night.”
“That is a sacrifice I am willing to make.” Urgency and delirium spark in his eyes as he tilts himself even closer to me. “You breathe an average of seventeen times per minute when you’re sleeping.”
Oh. My. Goodness.
He’s as crazy as I am.
“Is that…healthy?” I ask, breathless, probably breathing an average of zero times per minute right now.
“Yes. I looked it up. You are the pinnacle of health.”
My heart falls all over itself. “O-oh.”
All business, he asks, “Do you have a counteroffer?”
“Uh…well… I might need some time to think about this…”
“So youthinkabout things now? How much time did you spendthinkingabout what you did last night?”
“Um…” At least however long it took me to shave. On the off chance what almost happened had happened, I hadn’t wanted to live in both regret and embarrassment, you know?
“If the answer is less than a decade, I have some bad news about your need to take accountability. You can’t just waltz into a man’s room and make his bed smell like you without consequences.”
That makes sense, yes.
Lowering my head, I say, “I… You’re right. I accept my punishment.”
“Date me.”
I bristle. “What?”
“Date me. Go out with me. Be my girlfriend. Intend to marry me someday. Soon, preferably. Yesterday, even.”
“What?”
“I know I’m tired, but I swear I’m speaking English.”
My nose scrunches.
He points at it. “What isthat?”
“What is what?”
He pinches my nose, tries to smooth out the wrinkles. “I’msorry. Are you—little miss succubus—expressingdisgustwhere it concernsproperly courting the man you slept with last night?”
I cross my arms. “If I date you, there will be more stupid stories saying mean things about me.”
“But they’d at least be right about the dating part.”
I grumble, “It’s easier when it’salllies. Mixing truth and error makes it harder to decode what’s correct.”
Damion stares at me, blinks, stands, turns, grips the top rail of his seat, and collapses back into the chair, muttering, “Westilldon’t have caffeine.”
No, we don’t… Maybe I should make a run into town with fair immediacy to get some.
