“Good.”
“Good.”
We’re both still standing there like idiots, the bed looming between us like a dare. I need to move. Need to do something other than imagine her tangled in my sheets, hair spread across my pillow, that sharp mouth softened by sleep.
“Make yourself at home. Bathroom’s through there.” I point. “Towels in the cabinet. Water takes a minute to heat up.”
“Thanks.” She grabs her duffel, and our hands brush as she takes the strap from me.
Heat and something indefinable shoot up my arm.
She feels it too. I hear it in the catch of her breath, the way her eyes dart to mine and then away.
Fuck.
She pauses in the bathroom doorway, looking back at me over her shoulder.
“Tank?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.” Her voice is soft now, stripped of the banter. “For the bid. For sharing your space. And for not making it weird.”
I want to tell her it’s already weird. That having her in my space is overwhelming, like a natural disaster—impossible to preparefor. I’ve known her for three hours, and I’m already rearranging my entire life to make room for her.
Instead, I say, “Enjoy your shower, Jessie.”
She disappears into the bathroom. The door clicks shut.
I stand there like a moron, listening to the water run, and try to remember how to breathe.
By the time she emerges, I’ve got myself under control.
Mostly.
The fire’s built back up. I’ve changed into sweats and a t-shirt, spread an extra blanket on the couch, and I’m pretending to read a book I grabbed at random from the stack by the window.
Then Jessie steps out in sleep shorts and a tank top, and every rational thought exits my skull.
Jesus Christ.
Those legs. All that pale, freckled skin. The soft curve of her hips, the dip of her waist. She’s smaller than she seemed in the auction dress. Softer and more vulnerable.
And I’m supposed to act like this is normal when she’s standing in my cabin, about to sleep in my bed.
“Bathroom’s all yours.” She crosses to the bed, pulling back the quilt. “Fair warning—I used your toothpaste. I’ll replace it tomorrow.”
“Don't worry about it.”
“I worry about everything. It’s my cardio.” She slides under the covers, and watching her sink into the mattress with a groan that should be illegal is almost more than I can handle. “Oh, my god.”
“Told you.”
“This is obscene. This is the most comfortable bed I’ve ever—” She cuts herself off, pulling the quilt up to her chin. “You really sleep on this every night?”
“When I sleep.”
Her eyes find mine across the room. “Insomniac?”
