Page 103 of The Sweetest Return

I pulled the blanket higher, which was stupid because he was nowhere near me. Also useless, because there was nothing beneath the sheet but me.

After Mason’s, after that elevator, after standing in my room with my lips still swollen and my body still mad at me for letting him leave, I had stripped out of the cream knit, washed my face, and climbed into bed naked because clothes felt like one more thing touching me when all I wanted was the memory of his hands.

Unfortunately, the memory had hands of its own.

“You got quiet,” he said.

“I’m thinking.”

“That usually concerns me.”

“It should.”

His laugh moved low through the phone, then faded when I heard another small shift from him.

“Are you comfortable?” I asked.

“I’m good.”

“You just said your knee was at a four.”

“It is.”

“So good means what, exactly?”

“It means I’m in bed, leg propped up, ice pack doing its job, and you not about to start fussing at me before breakfast.”

“I have not begun to fuss.”

“I know. That’s why I’m trying to distract you.”

“With what?”

His voice changed.

“What you wearing?”

My whole body went still.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t need that information.”

“That sound like an answer.”

“It is not.”

“It told me enough.”

I stared at the phone like his face might appear on it through sheer nerve. “You don’t know anything.”

“I know you would’ve told me if you had on something smart-mouthed.”