Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 93417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
That was fun.
Briar pats my arm. “I’m fine with it. Rhys is a superior cuddler, so he’s got that covered.”
Rhys stretches, sighing in an oh-so-satisfied way. “But you don’t have to,” she says, giving me a reprieve, and fuck that.
I don’t back down.
I’m the new guy in this sharing situation-ship. No way am I gonna chicken out of sharing a very big bed. Even if I snore. “I’m down with it.”
A little later, we’ve lugged the mattresses to the living room, set up blankets and pillows, and made a giant mattress bed as the clock ticks to midnight. We’re at the halfway point in our stay here, and it already feels like time is speeding up, like it does when you hit that midway point of a great vacation. I try not to think about Wednesday. There’s no point. Besides, it’ll be good to hit the ice again.
Hollis sets down his sleep mask then flops next to it, patting his special pillow a few times.
“You and your sleeping rituals,” I say, since everyone on the team knows about his love affair with bedtime.
“I’m gonna marry sleep,” he says with genuine affection.
“What’s in that pillow?” Briar asks, settling in with her dog. “Angel dust? Virgin hair? Dandelions specially harvested by a devoted cult of sleep worshippers?”
“How did you know?” Hollis asks, all serious.
“I’ve heard good things about sleep worshippers,” Briar says.
“And now you’ve met one.” Hollis gives her an apologetic smile. “Sorry, baby. But I can’t face anyone while I sleep. Even you.”
She waves a hand his way. “Go, go. I don’t need face-to-face sleep.”
I don’t either but I’ve got to know why he can’t handle it. “What’s that all about, Bouchard?”
He rustles around under the blankets, maybe buying some time, then he grumbles. “Just my thing.”
“But why?” I press.
He moans, aggrieved, then drags a hand through his dark blond hair, a wild mess like always. “I just don’t like…someone breathing on me.”
A laugh bursts from me. A louder one from Rhys.
“Really?” Rhys asks.
“Yes, really,” Hollis grumbles as he tugs on his sleep mask, adjusting it, then letting it sit on his forehead. “Everyone has their peculiarities. I’m sure you have yours.”
Well, I don’t like sleeping with anyone else. But no fucking way will I say that. It’s more fun to give him hell. “But it’s extra funny that Mister Easygoing has so many,” I say.
“I like to sleep with my socks on then kick them off in the middle of the night,” Briar offers, then paddles her fuzzy-socked feet under the covers in a demo. “Also, I spoon my dog.”
I stare at the ceiling, trying not to smile over how fucking cute that is. Especially as she brings Donut closer to her chest like I did with Rascal all those years ago.
“I like to sleep with a pillow over my face,” Rhys offers, then adds, “Two, actually. I make a mountain of pillows on my head.”
There’s silence for several seconds. Everyone’s waiting. It’s my turn for a sleep confession. I hesitate as I pull the blanket up, casting a glance at Briar.
My new friend.
The woman I’m far too into.
I’m not sure I want everyone to know my sleep issue. But everyone served something up, so as foreign as this is to me, as bizarre as this entire situation is—four of us in a makeshift big bed—I push past the discomfort. “I have very dirty dreams.”
Well, that’s true.
But it’s also a lie of omission. But they’re going to find out one way or another. Fuck it. “And I snore loudly,” I admit, then I say goodnight and turn the other way, plotting my escape to the futon as soon as I possibly can. This was a shitty idea.
“Don’t worry. I sleep like the dead,” Briar puts in.
“Me too,” Hollis says.
“Same here,” Rhys offers.
And I’m glad they can’t see my expression in the dark—a stupid smile.
In the morning, I wake with my arms wrapped around Briar, my face in her hair, and the energy you get after having the best night of sleep ever.
It feels too good. Too right. That’s a problem. I can’t get used to her. I can’t get hooked on her.
This is just sex.
That is all.
No matter how much I like sleeping with her.
It’s time we refocus things on just sex. I leap out of bed, head to the kitchen, and make some coffee. We have three more days, then we’re gone. A twinge of something like missing lodges in my chest, but I dismiss it quickly. No time for that. No space for missing. In seventy-two hours we’ll be out of here and on our way to Chicago, then Detroit, then St. Louis.
But first, coffee.
A little later, when everyone’s wandering into the kitchen, no doubt lured by the aroma, I go first, before anyone else can get a word in: “Anyone up for a round of morning Never Have I Ever?”