“Okay,” I hear myself say. “Yeah. Let me just…I’m gonna go change.”
His smile is worth every bit of confusion currently rioting in my chest. “Take your time.”
I grab my pajamas and practically flee to the bathroom.
Very dignified.
I change into flannel pants and an oversized sweatshirt. Nothing even remotely romantic. Practically armor. Brush my teeth. Wash my face. Stare at my reflection in the mirror and give myself a stern talking-to about not doing anything stupid.
The mirror doesn’t respond.
Helpful.
When I come out, Brody’s on the couch again, leaning back against the cushions. He’s changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt, which looks both effortlessly comfortable and unfairly attractive.
The fireplace is still going, casting flickering shadows across his face, and Brody’s holding the remote, flipping through the channels.
He looks up when I appear, and something warm crosses his face. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I move toward the couch, and he scoots over to make room for me. The TV cycles through channels—a home renovation show, a true-crime documentary, what appears to be a very dramatic reality dating show?—
Then he lands on a cooking competition. Two chefs in white coats working frantically while a timer counts down. The chairman’s voice booms dramatically about a secret ingredient.
I remember what he told me. Back at the beginning of all this. How cooking shows are his guilty pleasure.
“Iron Chef?” I ask, settling onto the couch beside him.
He glances at me. “Is this okay?”
“Absolutely.”
His smile could power the entire resort.
I curl up next to him, and somehow—naturally, easily, like we’ve done this a thousand times—his arm comes around my shoulders. I fit against his side like I was made to be there.
The show plays on. He tells me about the chefs, explains the judging criteria, gets genuinely excited when someone pulls off a particularly impressive technique. “Look at that perfect sear.”
We settle deeper into the couch. Into each other.
It feels romantic in a way that has nothing to do with the fireplace or the rose petals or the honeymoon suite. It’s just…us. Watching TV. His thumb tracing absent patterns on my shoulder. I feel completely safe under his arm.
This is what it would be like, I think. If this were real. If we were just two people who chose each other. Quiet nights in. Cooking shows and comfortable silence. His arm around me like it belongs there.
The show ends. Another one starts.
Neither of us suggests moving.
At some point, I tilt my head up to look at him and find him already looking down at me.
The air changes.
His eyes drop to my lips.
He leans in.
Just slightly.
My breath catches.
