“No!” I say with over-the-top indignation. But then I wince. “I mean, compared to you, yeah. I’m not like this.”
“Admit it. You’re a pig. I’ll be cleaning up after you.”
I arch a brow. “I believe we already established you did that this morning with the coffee cups.”
“And I have no regrets,” he says, then stage whispers, “slob.”
“Stop it,” I say, but the teasing is working. It’s defusing some of the obvious tension from the obvious issue. The one we can’t avoid much longer. I stroll over to his side of the bed and pick up the lavender mask—a distraction. “You like my store,” I tease.
With a one-shouldered shrug, he says, “It’s okay.”
“Please. It’s amazing,” I say.
“It is,” he says from the other side of the room.
I’m just making small talk. That’s all this is. Someone needs to deal with the bed. The space. The problem.
But we’re both deathly silent for another long, weighty beat till Banks squares his shoulders. “I’ll take the couch.”
He is a gentleman in a lot of ways. But there’s no way he can sleep on the couch. The sofa’s not long. But Banksis. “I can take it,” I offer.
He shakes his head. “Nope. I’ll take it or the floor.”
I scoff. “You can’t sleep on the floor.”
A brow lifts in challenge. “Wanna bet, sweetheart?”
“Sure,” I say, squaring my shoulders too.
“Really? You really think I won’t sleep on the floor? After the yoga and the pedicure?”
He doesn’t mention the other challenge—thetry meone fromearlier. I don’t want him sleeping on the floor no matter what, but I know he’d do it to prove a point. He’ll be uncomfortable, but he’s so tough he won’t let on, and he’s so stubborn he’ll do it. “Fine. You can couch it,” I say, sort of giving in, but I prefer to think I’m being strategically nice. “Unless you want to sleep in the gardening shed.”
“Would you bring me a pillow and a blanket?”
I cross my arms. “I would.”
“Sounds kind of nice,” he says, then eyes the couch, lifting one palm, then the other. “Couch? Shed? Shed? Couch?”
It’s asked like he’s onJeopardy!, and he tilts his head back and forth, weighing the options.
Both are ridiculous. He should just sleep in the bed. It’s big enough for two. “Banks,” I say, when my phone trills.
I grab it from my back pocket, grateful for the distraction. It’s Haven.
“Hey, what’s going on?” I ask. “Are you at the hotel already? Want me to virtually tuck you in and read you a book?”
“You know I do.”
She used to ask me to do that—read a book to her when we were much younger. She’d say,“I just like hearing the story better than reading it, and you’re so good at character voices.”
I wasn’t good at character voices. She just liked the company.
“But, no I’m not at the hotel. I’m still at the house and your dog is wandering around here like a lost soul.”
“Hudson!” I shriek. “I’ll come get him. Also, you need to get to the hotel and get your sleep.”
“I will.”
