“It does.”
“Singular.” She turns to face me, and something in her expression makes heat crawl up my neck. “So where exactly were you planning to sleep, Mountain Man?”
I hook a thumb toward the couch. “I’ve crashed there plenty of times.”
“That couch isn’t even six feet long. You’re what, six-three?”
“Six-five.”
“So your feet will hang off.”
“Slept in smaller spaces. Jackson once made me fold into a supply crate for six hours during an extraction.” I shrug. “I’m flexible when I need to be.”
She arches a challenging eyebrow. “This is your home and your bed. I’m not kicking you out.”
“You’re not kicking me out of anything. I’m offering.”
“And I’m declining.” She crosses her arms, and I’m absolutely not noticing how the movement presses her breasts together. “I’m five-ten. I’ll take the couch.”
“Like hell you will.”
“Excuse me?” She glares, lifting her chin. “You’re being chivalrous. But you can’t just decide?—”
“I’m not being chivalrous. I’m being practical.” I match her stance, arms crossed, and watch her eyes track the movement. Good. Let her look. “That bed’s got a memory foam topper I hauled up this mountain on my back. You’ll sleep better than you have in months.”
“You don’t know how I sleep.”
“I know that motel mattress would’ve destroyed your spine.”
“Maybe I like being destroyed.”
The words hang in the air. Her cheeks flush pink.
I shouldn’t grin. I definitely shouldn’t let her see that she just made my whole night. But my face doesn’t get the memo.
“Interesting choice of words,” I manage.
“Oh, shut up.” She’s fighting a smile now, and something in my chest cracks open watching it. “You know what I meant.”
“Do I?”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re sleeping in the bed.” I grab her duffel and carry it across the room, setting it on the cedar chest at the foot of the mattress. “Non-negotiable.”
“We just met. You can’t ‘non-negotiate’ me.”
“Watch me.”
She stares at me, and I stare right back. It’s a standoff. A test. Although I don’t know what answer she’s looking for, I’m not backing down.
Finally, she throws her hands up. “Fine. But I’m going on record that this is ridiculous.”
“Noted.”
“And if your back hurts tomorrow, I’m not rubbing it.”
The image her words conjure, of her hands on my bare skin, working out the knots, makes my brain short-circuit for a second. “Wasn’t gonna ask.”
