The Bodyguard (43)

“Oh my God, you have to make them do that!”

“I’ve been trying to for years.”

Not good. I’d be highlighting that in tonight’s log.

And yet, a lot of my usual anxieties felt unusually muted, there on Jack Stapleton’s back. Maybe it was the rhythm of his walking. Or the velvetiness of his flannel shirt enrobing me. Or the solidness of his shoulder under my chin. Or that cinnamon scent that seemed to follow him everywhere.

Or maybe it’s just objectively hard to worry about anything when you’re getting a piggyback ride.

I could feel the muscles in his back shifting and tightening with each step, especially as we made our way uphill. I could feel him breathing through his ribcage. I could feel the warmth of his body where we were pressed together.

I won’t lie. It was nice.

Too nice, maybe.

“You really can set me down,” I said.

But nothing doing. “We’re almost there,” Jack said.

So I guess I had no choice but to stay there and enjoy it.





Fourteen


HELL OF A first day.

That night, as promised, I slept on the floor.

Jack found a yoga mat in the hall closet, and I folded a couple of blankets on top of it.

It was fine. I was fine. I was comfortable being uncomfortable.

At least I wasn’t sleeping in a closet.

I’d slept in a million crazy places—hallways, rooftops, even a broken elevator once. What I hadn’t done, though, was sleep in a room with Jack Stapleton.

A little off-putting. Not gonna lie.

Would you like to know what Jack Stapleton does with his pillow when he sleeps? He doesn’t rest his head on it like regular people do. He shoves it under his body, vertically, like a surfboard, and then drapes himself over it.

And wanna know what he wears for pj’s?

Loose sweatpants and an aggressively clingy undershirt.

But what does he do with his dirty clothes when he changes into those pj’s?

He leaves them all over the bathroom floor.

I walked in when it was my turn to change and found his muddy boots, his wadded socks, the T-shirt he’d worn all day, and his still-damp jeans—with the belt still in the loops and the underwear still inside—just lying there on the floor, splayed out in an almost-human shape, like a bearskin rug made of Jack Stapleton’s dirty laundry.

I mean, I had to step over them to get to the sink to brush my teeth.

When I came out of the bathroom, Jack was sitting on the edge of his bed. He looked up.

I stared at him, like What the hell?

And he frowned back, like What?

So I pointed back at the bathroom floor and said, “Can you come deal with this?”

But Jack just tilted his head.

“Hey,” I said. “This is a shared space. You can’t leave your crap all over the floor.”

But Jack was looking me up and down.

“Hello?” I said.

“Is that what you’re sleeping in?”

I looked down. “Um. Yes?”

“Is that what you always sleep in?”

I looked up, like What? “Sometimes.”

“I didn’t even know they still made those.”

I looked down again. “Nightgowns?”

“I mean,” Jack said, and now he was looking at me like I was funny. “You look like a Victorian child.”

“It’s a nightgown,” I said. “It’s a normal piece of human sleepwear.”

“Nope.”

“People wear nightgowns, Jack.”

“Not like that one, they don’t.”

“Hey,” I said. “I’m not making fun of what you’re wearing.”

“What I’m wearing is normal.”

I shuffled over to his mirror and looked at myself. White cotton. Short sleeves. A little ruffle below the knees. “I do not look like a Victorian child. A Victorian child would have lace and ribbons. And a little cap on its head.”

“Pretty close, though.”

“I was just trying to bring girlfriend-like sleepwear.”

“I’ve never seen a girlfriend in anything even close.”

“Your girlfriends probably only sleep in thongs.”

“At the maximum.” Jack gave an exaggerated sigh and gazed up at the ceiling as if remembering it fondly.

I checked my reflection again. “This seemed,” I said, in my own defense, “like the most professional of all my sleepwear options.”

“But—I mean, is it yours?”

“Of course it’s mine. You think I stole it?”

“Yeah. From a ninety-year-old grandma.”

Now I was annoyed. He’d called me a lot of insulting things today, from “plain,” to “an idiot,” to “the epitome of ordinary.” Now he was saying “grandma”? To my face?

Somehow, this was the best retort I could manage: “You’re not in a position to throw shade, Mister Clothes-All-Over-The-Floor.”

It was supposed to be a burn, but Jack just started laughing.

Like really laughing—his shoulders shaking and everything. “That’s a terrible burn,” he said. “I think that’s the worst burn I’ve ever heard.”