I wander to the window while he talks. The city spreads out below, lights reflecting off wet pavement. Somewhere out there, a jet is grounded, and I’m stuck in a hotel room with a man I’m supposed to be married to.
A man I’m realizing I don’t mind being stuck with.
Silas hangs up. “They’ll bring everything in thirty minutes.”
“Thank you.”
He loosens his tie. “You should shower first.”
I nod and escape to the bathroom before I say something I’ll regret. The hotel provides thick, soft robes. I shower quickly,washing off the day: meetings, dinner, Richard’s scrutiny, Silas’s hand on mine.
When I step out, my reflection is flushed from the hot water, and my hair is damp and curling. I put on the robe, tie it, and return to the bedroom.
Silas is on the phone again, pacing near the window. He glances at me, and his eyes linger on the robe before he looks away.
I sit on the edge of the bed and wait.
He finishes the call and sets the phone down.
I gesture toward the bathroom. “Shower’s yours.”
He grabs the second robe from the closet and disappears into the bathroom. I lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the water run.
This is fine. We’re adults. We can share a bed without it meaning anything.
Except I keep thinking about his thumb on my knuckles and the way he paused before answering the woman at the front desk.
The water shuts off. I sit up.
There is a knock at the door, and I answer it. A hotel employee hands me two garment bags and a toiletry case.
“The items you ordered.”
I thank him and close the door.
Inside the bags: pajamas. Real ones, not hotel robes. Soft cotton pants and a matching shirt for me. A similar set for Silas.
I knock on the bathroom door and tell Silas I have his pajamas. He opens the door slightly, and my thighs clench at the thought that he is on the other side of that door naked.
I hand him the pajamas through the small crack, then I change into my own pajamas quickly and climb into bed before he emerges.
When he does, he’s in the pajamas, hair damp, and the effect is striking. He looks younger and almost relaxed.
He stops at the foot of the bed. “I can take the couch.”
“You won’t fit on the couch.”
He looks up at the ceiling, deep in thought, trying to come up with another solution in his mind. “I’ll call housekeeping and ask them to make up the sofa bed.”
I find it funny that he's so nervous about sharing a bed with me. “You understand the problem with that, right?”
It takes him a second. “If I call down to the front desk, I risk speaking to the same woman who checked us in, who will find it odd that newlyweds need two beds.”
“Exactly,” I respond. “Because who knows if that will end up in gossip magazines if she suspects trouble in our relationship.”
He blows out a breath.
I pull the blanket up. “We’re adults. We can share a bed.”
