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“I know I have to work tomorrow.”

Nothing.

“Just one more chapter.”

Still nothing.

“People stay up late reading all the time. Where do you think the saying reading past my bedtime came from? It’s practically a lifestyle.”

He yawns.

Judgmental little jerk. I pick my book back up. Unfortunately, my current choice isn’t helping my case.

A hockey player stares moodily from the cover, all broad shoulders and crossed arms beneath the title. Worse, somewhere around page two hundred, the hero finally stopped pretending he isn’t in love with his best friend’s little sister.

So far, he’s handling it about as well as expected, which is to say, terribly.

“I know.”

Darcy hasn’t moved.

“Just because I don’t want to write about it doesn’t mean I can’t read about it.”

His tail flicks once.

“Somebody deserves a happy ending in this situation.”

Even if it can’t be me.

That thought lands a little harder than I mean for it to. I shift deeper into the couch and pull the blanket higher.

Bishop has only been gone a couple of days. That’s nothing.

I’ve gone months without seeing him before. Years actually, if I don’t count holidays and the occasional weekend he showed up at home in Evergreen with Declan.

But this is different.

Because now I know what it’s like to hear him moving around the kitchen in the morning. To find his shoes by the door. To argue about coffee and groceries and whether Darcy is legally entitled to half the furniture.

I’ve gotten used to him. That’s all, which is a dangerous thing to do with Hayes Bishop.

Because the more time I spend with him, the harder it is to remember all the reasons I shouldn’t want more.

And I do. God, I do. That’s the problem.

I've spent five years making a sport out of avoiding him, and in less than two weeks the carefully constructed Hayes-Bishop-proof wall is crumbling brick by brick.

I focus on reading, needing the distraction, until my eyes burn. I blink hard and refocus on the page.

The hero is currently explaining all the reasons kissing his best friend’s sister was a catastrophic mistake while preparing to kiss her again.

Men.

At least fictional ones are predictable. I make it another page before the words blur. Then another. Eventually, I let the book fall against my chest.

Just for a minute. I’ll close my eyes for one minute, then I’ll go to bed.

One more chapter.