He's watching me.
One eyebrow lifts, amused. "You hiding from me, or from the day?"
"From myself," I mutter into the blanket. "There are… risks."
"Risks," he repeats, clearly enjoying this far too much.
"Yes. Morning risks. Facial risks. Respiratory risks. Potentially international incidents."
"International incidents?"
"I don't know what I look like right now. Could be a diplomatic crisis."
“Only if I’m not also an American. You look—" He clears his throat. "Warm. Soft. Like I should've taken the couch.”
"So… no boogers?" I whisper, deadly serious.
A quiet laugh slips out of him, low and unfairly attractive.
"Negative on boogers," he says, fighting a grin. "I would've evacuated. Called in a hazmat team. Possibly the National Guard."
"Good." I exhale, letting the blanket drop an inch. "Because that would've ended the arrangement."
He laughs again and stretches his neck and shoulders—just enough to remind me how big he is, how warm, how very muchthere—and my brain promptly forgets how to operate.
This day hasn't even startedyet, and already I'm losing ground.
He swings his legs out of bed. “Coffee?”
I’m staring at the way his T-shirt pulls across his shoulders as he stands.
“Yes. Please. Absolutely.”
I redirect my gaze to the extremely fascinating blank wall behind him.
By the time I’m back from the bathroom—hair smoothed, T-shirt rearranged into something resembling dignity—West returns with two mugs.
He hands me a mug, and his thumb brushes mine during the transfer. The contact lasts half a second. I feel it everywhere.
"We should probably talk," he says, leaning against the dresser like he needs the distance.
My stomach does a weird flip. Not nerves. Anticipation. "About?"
His gaze drops to my mouth before snapping back up. "Details. Making sure we're on the same page before we see people today."
Right. People. The fake relationship. Not the fact that I woke up using his abs as a hand warmer.
"Yeah. Good idea." I wrap both hands around the mug. "So... your family. They're the only ones who need to think we're together, right?"
"Right. My parents, my great-aunt Milly—though everyone just calls her Aunt Milly." He runs a hand through his hair. "I'll introduce you properly."
"Any siblings I should know about?"
"No. Only child." He pauses. "No cousins either. No aunts, no uncles. It's literally just my parents and Aunt Milly. That's the whole family."
"Oh." The weight of that settles over me. "So you're..."
"The only one." Something bitter flickers across his face. "The last hope for carrying on the family line, as Aunt Milly likes to remind me. Frequently."
