Well Matched (Well Met #3)(27)

Bedtime.

“So.” Mitch cleared his throat and looked around the room, as though surprised that the rose petals hadn’t cleared themselves away and the giant bed hadn’t split itself in two while we were at dinner. “I can sleep on . . .”

“No, you can’t.” I didn’t let him finish the sentence, because there was no way he could that would make any sense. There wasn’t a single piece of furniture that could possibly support him with any kind of comfort. I took out my earrings, laying them on the bureau beside my purse as I surveyed the options. “I could take the . . . chair.” But my voice betrayed the uncertainty I felt about that option, and Mitch snorted.

“Which one? The desk chair? Or that one by the window?” He had a point. The mesh-back chair by the desk might be ergonomic for working at a laptop, but not much else. And the two chairs by the window could be pushed together, maybe. But they looked hard and unyielding—obviously purchased for aesthetics as opposed to comfort.

I sighed, which he obviously took for assent. “Look.” He rolled his head around the back of his neck. “We’re both adults here, I think we can handle this. Right?” His slightly uncertain look belied the statement, but I knew what he meant. This bed was massive. If we each stuck to our sides, the chance of even running into each other between those sheets was minimal. Hopefully.

“Right,” I said. I dug my pajamas out from the top bureau drawer, where I’d stashed them earlier this evening. I’d unpacked and hung up the clothes I was planning to wear this weekend, putting everything else in the bureau. Mitch’s clothes remained in his leather duffel in the corner of the room. “I get the bathroom first.”

“Be my guest.” He brushed his arm in an arc across the bed, dislodging some of the rose petals, before picking up the remote and pointing it at the television.

Through the closed bathroom door I could hear the sounds of a late-night show while I washed my face and brushed my teeth. While I hadn’t anticipated sharing a room with Mitch this weekend, I was thankful I’d had the presence of mind to pack real pajamas instead of relying on my standby: an old tank top and whatever underwear I’d worn that day. No reason to scandalize the boy. Besides, he didn’t need to see my scarred-up right leg. No one did. The doctor had done a great job, sure. But there was only so much a person could do with an injury like that. I preferred to keep it covered up and out of sight.

I took one last look in the mirror before turning off the light and leaving the bathroom. I wasn’t one for wearing a ton of makeup, but the complete absence of it, with serum and night cream massaged into my skin, definitely added years to my face. My gaze fell on my makeup bag, nestled on the counter between the sink and Mitch’s Dopp kit. It looked very domestic, yet unfamiliar. Comforting, yet slightly terrifying.

I blew out a long breath and turned out the light, forcing the discomfort from my mind as I strode back into the bedroom. “All yours,” I said cheerfully. With any luck I could be under the covers and asleep by the time Mitch came to bed.

Came to bed. Jesus. How on earth was I going to sleep a wink tonight?



* * *



? ? ?

    I must have slept, but even in sleep I remained tense, because I woke up the next morning practically clinging to the edge of the bed. I carefully rolled on my back, doing my best to move as little as possible, and turned my head to the right. Mitch lay on his stomach, head turned to the side in my direction, sound asleep. I’d still been awake, trying to concentrate on the book on my e-reader, when he’d come to bed, dressed in a T-shirt and basketball shorts. I had a feeling the outfit was a concession to me, as I’d caught him tugging at the shirt a couple of times. He’d been a perfect gentleman, watching television while I read for about a half hour in some kind of farce of domesticity before mutually agreeing to turn out the light. By the looks of things, he’d remained firmly on his side of the bed, and he hadn’t even hogged the covers.

He looked so peaceful now, so young, when he was relaxed in sleep, all residual tension drained away. His hair was mussed; a lock fell over his forehead and my fingers itched to brush it back.

I made a fist, punishing those fingers, and then I slipped out of bed and padded as quietly as I could to the bathroom, snicking the door closed behind me. The deep breath I took then felt like the first hit of oxygen I’d had in ages. One night down, one to go. This wasn’t so bad.

I’d made a tactical error though, which I hadn’t realized till I was already in the shower: I’d been so intent on escaping our bed that I hadn’t brought clothes with me into the bathroom. I clearly wasn’t used to sharing a hotel room with someone I was pretending to date. After my shower I scrunched my hair and slipped back into my pajamas. I could grab my clothes and get back into the bathroom quickly.

Except when I opened the drawer an alarm blared, and for a hazy, confused second I looked down at the bureau in confusion, wondering when a booby trap had been set. Then I realized the sound came from the nightstand: Mitch’s phone, but Mitch wasn’t moving. A split second later he did, rolling over in bed like a wave made of muscle and blankets. He groped for the phone, silencing it, then lay back against the pillows, taking the deep breath of someone waking up to face a new day. I turned quickly back to the bureau, fishing out the jeans and top I’d planned to wear today.