“Why?”
“Do you know what your dad does for a living?”
“He’s a politician.”
“I meant the biological one—you know, the hired killer.”
At that she faltered, but then fire lit her eyes again. She stomped to the couch and grabbed two cushions. “This is absurd. That bed is stupid-large. There is no reason”—with a grunt, she planted the cushions in the center, forming a line—“we can’t both sleep on it without any impropriety.”
If he did this, he’d either get her killed—by the royals—or himself killed—by her mercenary father. “Thank you, but I like living.”
“You’re being ridiculous. I’m not letting a man with a cracked rib sleep caddy-corner on a lumpy couch.”
“It was actually pretty?—”
She threw a pillow at him.
Owen ducked it, then gaped at her. “What?—”
Next, a small narrow pillow winged his way.
“Hey!” Oh no… No no no. This was just like… “Stop.”
Amusement made her smile as she reached for a shoe.
“Leighton, no.” This was not happening. He pivoted and headed to the bathroom. Felt the shoe bean him in the head. Wincing, he stepped inside and locked the door. Set his face in his hands, trying so hard to block out the story Dad told him about the night in Venezuela between him and Mom.
He slumped back against the wall, tired. Weary. He slid down and tilted his head back. It wasn’t that he was weak. And it definitely wasn’t because she was into him. He wasn’t addicted to painkillers like Dad had been, so…
The soft rap of her knuckles made him twinge. “Apollo?”
He exhaled heavily.
“Hey, sorry…”
He did not want her to apologize. Now he felt like an idiot for letting that hit him so wrong.
“Guess I didn’t know you were a lightweight pillow fighter.”
Eyebrows winging up at the taunt, he gave a breathy laugh.
“I’ll go easier on you…”
Owen hopped up and opened the door. “Lightweight, huh?”
Mirth made her eyes glow brightly, and she tried to hide her smile but it bubbled into laughter. In shorts and a T-shirt, she backed up. “C’mon. Please—this shouldn’t be a problem. We’re adults, and it’s not as if you like me.”
His heart tripped over that—hadn’t he assumed the same thing? Should he read into the fact she didn’t say that she wasn’t into him? Was she? More importantly, should he correct her lie? Even as he wondered that, she slipped between the sheets on her side and scooted down, then turned her back to his side.
Was this really happening?
He sat on the edge of the bed. I am a man of honor and character.
Yeah, Dad had been too.
With a silent groan, he stretched his neck and turned out the light. Then angled his head onto the pillow, doing his best to stay at the farthest edge of the mattress as possible without falling off. Sleep collided with him, hard and fast.
Owen snapped wide awake. Room still dark, he eyed the clock on the end table. 0430 hours. Wow, had he really slept six hours straight? Must’ve needed it. Afraid to move and wake Leighton, he stifled a yawn, then braced his side and drew himself off the mattress, careful not to disturb her. He glanced to her side of the bed.
