I wake up to the sound of steady breathing that isn’t mine.
For a moment, I’m disoriented—why is there breathing? Why is my pillow so warm and solid and…why does it have a heartbeat?
My eyes crack open, and my heart leaps at the realization.
We fell asleep on the couch. Brody’s arm wrapped around me, pulling me close. My head, which started out on his shoulder, somehow migrated to his warm—very solid—chest. And while I’m not complaining, it definitely wasn’t how I expected to be waking up this morning.
Brody stirs, his thumb stroking my arm.
Oh, this is…this is bad.
I might never get up. I’ll miss the whole wedding, and it might just be worth it.
I close my eyes again, weighing today’s responsibilities against how much I really, really, really want to stay here. He’s so warm. And he smells good—that woodsy cologne I’ve grown familiar with.
And what’s worse—I lift my head just slightly to look at him—yeah, what’s way worse is that he’s beautiful.
I know that sounds dramatic. Men aren’t supposed to be beautiful. They’re handsome or attractive or hot. But Brody asleep, with his face relaxed and his guard completely down, is beautiful. The morning light filtering through the curtains catches his features—the line of his jaw, the dark stubble, the way his eyelashes rest against his cheeks. I want to reach up and touch them.
He looks peaceful. Younger. Like the weight he carries when he’s awake has lifted.
But…I have a wedding to run, and I’d never hear the end of it if I was late.
I attempt to extract myself slowly. Carefully. Trying not to wake him.
His arm tightens around me. His eyes open—those always-changing blue-gray eyes that make me forget how to form sentences.
“Hey,” he says, his voice rough with sleep.
“Hey.” My face is approximately three inches from his. “I fell asleep—I mean, we fell asleep. I didn’t mean to?—”
“It’s okay.” He’s not letting go. Not moving away. Just looking at me like he’s memorizing my face. “How’d you sleep?”
“Good. Really good, actually.” Better than I’ve slept in weeks, but I’m not admitting that. “You?”
“Best I’ve slept in a long time.” He smiles. It’s one of those lazy-day smiles, easy, rested, and it does things to my heart. How I love that smile.
Still, he doesn’t let go, just props his other arm behind his head, bringing him closer. Close enough that I can count the flecks of darker blue in his eyes. Close enough to that dangerous territory where one of us could lean forward just slightly and?—
I pull away. Sit up. Run a hand over my tangled hair. “I should—I need to go. Maya’s probably freaking out. Valentine’s Day”—I can’t help the little flutter in my stomach thinking about us, together, on Valentine’s Day—“and wedding day and all.”
“Right. Yeah.” He sits up too, the throw blanket pooling around his waist. His T-shirt is rumpled, his hair sticking up on one side.
“What did you want to talk about?” I ask, pulling on a cardigan over my pajamas. “Last night. Before everything.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then, “I’ll tell you after the ceremony. Is that okay?”
“After the ceremony?”
“Yeah.” He smiles, warm and sure. “It can wait a few hours. Let’s get through the wedding first.”
I’ll admit, I had a lot of time to think about it last night. Maybe too much time, because I’ve got it all planned out. The moment when I tell him the truth, that this isn’t fake anymore, that I’m totally, hopelessly in love with him, and that I want to try to make it work for real. I’m going to wait for dancing to start, for that first slow song to play—call it corny, but I used to think that kind of movie moment didn’t happen to girls like me, but I’m starting to believe, so you’ll excuse me if I get a little cliché—that’s when I’ll tell him. That’s when it’s supposed to happen. The perfect moment.
So, really, waiting to talk until after the ceremony works perfectly.
“Okay,” I say. “After the ceremony.”
“It’s a date.” He winks. Actually winks. Who winks? Main characters, that’s who. I told you! I’m starting to believe.
