Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
He tenses, eyes flickering with concern that he quickly seems to let go of, maybe for my sake. “Is she okay?”
“She assured me it was a—quote—good thing.” I sketch air quotes as I imitate her. “But I’m still nervous.” I lock gazes with the man I’m sharing a bunk bed with tonight, and his eyes are kind and caring. I’ll need that tomorrow. “Would you come with me?”
His smile is as instant as his answer. “I will.”
“Thanks. I’ll text her and let her know. She’ll be excited,” I say, then I yawn. “I should get ready for bed. I’ll see you in the bunk.”
Hmm. I realize quickly that I didn’t think this through. The whole bra-free lifestyle I practice at night, I mean. And really, what woman doesn’t go braless as often as she possibly can?
I frown at my softly lit reflection in the bathroom mirror, plucking at the loose neckline of my sleep T-shirt. Yes, it goes down to my thighs. Yes, I’m wearing sleep shorts.
But…
The girls are jiggling and wiggling around.
They’re not huge, though they aren’t small either. Am I going to just sashay out that door, say sleep tight, then slide into bed all free-range?
It’s not anything he hasn’t seen before, one voice says.
I know, but we don’t talk about that, the other voice whispers.
He knows you have boobs, the first voice says.
I roll my eyes at my reflection. Whatever. It’s fine. We’re not technically sleeping in the same bed, anyway.
I yank open the door of the en suite bathroom walking into the bedroom, then I have to grab onto the freaking wall.
Because…gray sweatpants, so help me god.
Monroe’s bent over his suitcase, riffling around for something. He’s wearing a T-shirt from his alma mater and sweats that make me sweat.
Dressed in a T-shirt, all his ink is visible. A half sleeve covers his left forearm, with a sturdy tree in the center. Maybe it’s a maple tree? It’s surrounded by flowers, a rich red rose, a deep sapphire dahlia, a tiny white calla lily. Sunbursts hug the flowers, coasting down his fair skin, and they’re such a contrast to his by-the-book personality. It’s rare to find a doctor with visible ink. I’ve certainly never had one. I associate tattoos more with artists, athletes, and bartenders, not with someone who’s guarded, who keeps his emotions close to the vest.
It’s not the first time I’ve seen Monroe’s ink, of course. But it makes my pulse speed up just the same.
I swallow once. Then again as he stands, a blue shirt in his right hand. “Just making sure I had something nice to wear when we see your mom,” he says.
The man plans for everything. My planner heart is doing a jig. “That’s a nice shirt,” I say, and I offer a smile that I hope is friendly. A nice friendly reminder that we’re friends and colleagues. That I’m his friend’s sister. That his sexy ink and low-slung sweats aren’t affecting me.
Just like my shirt probably isn’t affecting him.
Except when his eyes take a quick tour of my attire, stopping, no, lingering on my chest, I’m pretty sure my shirt is doing something.
But then he shakes his head and mutters, “excuse me” before he heads off to the bathroom.
That wasn’t too awkward. I get into the bottom bunk, then stare up at my reflection.
This is an odd view. You don’t normally look at yourself in this pose. My hair’s fanned out on the pillow. My boobs are flattened now. Is this how I’d look if he fucked me in this bed? And do I really want this view?
Or maybe, the first voice says, he’d want you on top so he could watch you.
The second voice chides the first one with a stop, just stop.
“You weirdo,” I say, then I grab my phone and click open my book, a workplace memoir about human-centered design that’s really about how to be a better, kinder human. Perfect reading for tonight. I should aspire to be my best self here with Monroe, with my mom tomorrow. In general.
And a better human won’t linger too long on gray sweats, sexy ink, or mirrored beds.
A few minutes later, the bathroom door creaks open, and Monroe returns to the bed, appraising it once more, shaking his head in amusement. “All right. Let’s see what the bunk bed hype is about,” he says, then heads to the foot of the bed and climbs the wooden ladder, giving me a perfect view of his gray sweats as he ascends.
He stops, though, before he reaches the top, his calves in my line of view. How are they toned even through his sweatpants?
“Why are you a weirdo?” he asks.
I groan privately. “You heard that?”
“Well, you said it out loud. I was curious.”
Of course he was. And really, I don’t need to hide the truth. Just to obfuscate it a tidge. “It’s just that mirrors on the ceiling are weird. I’m not sure I want to look at myself as I’m reading in bed.”