“Don’t even think about it.”
His eyebrows rise in mock innocence. “Think about what?”
“Whatever bullshit is about to come out of your mouth about sharing the bed.”
“Phoenix.” He presses a hand to his chest, sounding disturbingly sincere. “You should really save the tantrum for another time. It’s not going to help.”
I kick off my heels and immediately feel three inches shorter and about a thousand times more vulnerable. “You’re sleeping on the floor.”
“The floor?” He glances down at the worn carpet with theatrical disgust. “That floor? The one that’s probably not been deep-cleaned since the Reagan administration?”
“That’s the one.”
“Interesting.” He steps fully into the room, setting his bag on the bed—on the bed, like he already owns the place—and crossing his arms. “What if I said no?”
“Then I’ll scream.”
He blinks. “You’ll scream?”
“Loudly. Repeatedly. Until someone calls the police.”
His mouth twitches. “That’s your plan? Scream until law enforcement arrives to settle a sleeping arrangement dispute?”
“I’ve worked with less.”
“Phoenix.” He takes a step toward me, and suddenly the room feels much smaller than it did five seconds ago. “This bratty routine might work on Mason, but you’re going to need to try something different with me.”
Heat floods my face. Whether it’s anger or something else, I refuse to examine too closely. “Bratty? Did you just call me bratty?”
“I call them like I see them.”
“You insufferable, arrogant?—”
“See, there it is again.” He’s closer now, close enough that I can smell that stupid jasmine-plum cologne, can see the way the lamplight catches the gold flecks in his green eyes. “The defensive deflection. The insults. It’s almost like you’re trying to distract me from something.”
“The only thing I’m trying to do is avoid sharing a bed with you.”
“Why?”
The question catches me off guard. “What do you mean, why? Because I don’t want to. Because it’s inappropriate. Because?—“
“Because you don’t trust yourself?”
My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
Because you don’t trust yourself.
The words hang between us like a challenge. Like a dare. And the worst part—the absolute worst fucking part—is that he’s not entirely wrong.
I need to get out of here. I need to get away from him before the worst possible thing happens.
The sudden urge to get away from him is overwhelming. Turning on my heel, I rip open the unlocked bathroom door without thinking it through.
And slam directly into a very wet, very naked Mason.
The impact sends the toiletry bag in his hand flying. Bottles scatter across the tile floor—shampoo, conditioner, the obscenely expensive face wash he refuses to travel without. Mason stumbles backward, nearly slipping on the wet floor, and I get an eyeful of…everything.
Literally everything.
