Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 69858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Long moments—minutes—hours?—later, Thomas eases out of me and rolls onto his side, his arm coming up to cover his eyes as he gasps for air.
I roll towards him, propping up on one elbow. “Shoot. We are really bad at this friends thing.”
He lets out a hoarse laugh. “Yeah. Yeah we are.”
Then his arm comes up, looping behind me, easing me down to his chest. I know I should resist, I do. This breaks all the rules—my rules.
And yet his chest against my cheek feels so good, the heat of his body against mine feels impossible to resist.
“Why’s it so cold in here?” he murmurs.
“I like to sleep with it cold. Don’t you?”
“Certainly not.”
“One more reason,” I say, a little drowsily, “why this can only be a one-time thing. We can’t even agree on temperature.”
“Agreed,” Thomas says softly.
I’m not sure who we’re trying to convince. The other person—or ourselves.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Saturday, October 8
It’s still dark when I wake up the first time, protesting a little at being jostled as an arm slides beneath me. My protest is even louder at the lack of warmth I’d been cuddled against, but subsides as blankets are resettled over me. I think maybe a hand touches my hair, but I’m not sure.
When I wake up the second time, it’s to an alarm, and the sun’s coming in the window.
I wrinkle my nose in confusion, my groggy brain trying to sort out a few things:
1.Why I don’t remember setting my alarm.
2.Why it’s on the pillow next to mine instead of the nightstand.
3.Why it’s playing some classical crap instead of Van Halen’s “Jump.”
Then all of the pieces come together.
Thomas set my alarm. Thomas set it on the pillow he vacated. Thomas changed it to his music.
I smile. I shouldn’t, but I do.
By the time I shower, dress, and put on makeup, my smile is somewhat more forced as I try to fight through the possible awkwardness that awaits me at breakfast.
Maybe I’ll get lucky though. The hotel has an included breakfast from six to ten am, and there’s no guarantee he and I will show up at the same time. And the first planned event—wine-tasting—isn’t until eleven.
And yeah, we’re going to be drinking wine at eleven—what of it?
Luck is on my side. Thomas isn’t at one of the buffet lines or one of the lobby tables, but Collette is, and she waves me over enthusiastically after I grab a bagel and cream cheese, plus a banana.
“Morning!” she beams. “How’d you sleep? The beds are fabulous, right?”
“Totally,” I agree, taking a sip of coffee to hide the fact that the fabulous part of my bed wasn’t the sleep so much as what came before—literally.
“Hey, Jon,” I say to Thomas’s brother, whose head is buried in the sports page.
“Morning, Mac.” He grins at me over the paper, then resumes reading.
I set about spreading cream cheese on my bagel—I like lots, so I grabbed two of the little tubs, and look up only when I find Collette watching me with narrowed eyes.
“What?” I ask, freezing mid-bite.
“Jon,” she says mildly. “Go away.”
He looks up in surprise. “I’m sorry?”
“Go. Away.”
Her fiancé opens his mouth as though to protest, then shrugs, folds his paper, and takes it and his coffee cup to another table with his cousin and his wife.
“You got sex,” Collette says, lowering her voice so only I can hear.
“What?” My voice is bad-actress levels of scandalized. “Don’t be crazy.”
“Oh, shut up. I’m your best friend, and we used to live together. I know your post-coital face.” She narrows her eyes. “Oh my god. Not just sex. You got fancy sex.”
“What the heck is fancy sex? Actually, no, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”
“Fancy sex,” she continues anyway, “is sex that’s so good, so epic, that it’s above all other sex.”
“I assure you, I’ve never had fancy sex. Just regular sex. And not recently,” I rush to add. So many lies in one little sentence.
“You’re lying.” She drums her manicured nails on the table, studying me. “But why? Why would you be lying to your best friend about good sex unless . . .”
Her lips part as she puts the pieces together. “Wait a second. There is only one person here you could have had sex with.”
“How do you figure that math? There are plenty of men here.”
“But only one single man,” she says smugly.
“In our party, sure. Maybe I slept with the bartender.”
“He did look like your type with all those tattoos and the tongue stud,” Collette admits. “Except when he was pouring my sauvignon blanc, he and I got to chatting about wedding details. He’s getting married on Valentine’s Day. To a Michael.”
“Fascinating stuff,” I say, wiping a bit of cream cheese from the corner of my mouth.
“Okay, stop playing it cool! You slept with Thomas!” she says excitedly. “Oh my God, Mac, we’re going to be sisters?!”