My One and Only(68)
There was only one bed. One small double bed that, had Nick and I actually still been married, would’ve been quite cozy. I set Coco down, and she jumped right onto a pillow, as was her custom. She curled into a ball and ignored the two of us and our silent machinations.
Then, as if reading my mind, Nick said, “You can take the bed. I’ll sleep…on the, uh…altar.” A squeak of laughter escaped from me, and Nick gave me a lightning grin.
I sobered up a bit. “I’m gonna brush my teeth. Back in a flash.”
In the bathroom, I stared at my reflection. The past few days had taken their toll; I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in days, and I wasn’t about to get one, either. Shadows lurked under my eyes, and out of its ponytail, my hair looked scraggly. Good. The last thing I wanted right now was to look alluring in any way, shape or form.
Of course, in the movies, this was where the hero and heroine hooked up, trapped in some little motel or whatever. But Nick and I were not going to hook up. “You and Nick—not gonna hook up,” I whispered to my reflection, just in case I forgot. Because come on. Nick stirred things in me, damn the man. Once I’d become turned on watching him empty the trash. I’m serious.
With a sigh, I scrubbed my face without tenderness or mercy, brushed my teeth and pulled on my pajama bottoms, which were bright yellow and printed with laughing monkey faces. About as unglam as you could get, luckily. A vast Red Sox sweatshirt (my Christmas present from Dennis) completed the don’t touch me look, about as close to a chastity belt as I could manage at the moment.
Nick was in the hall when I came out, toothbrush in hand, and we did that awkward step-to-the-left-step-to-the-right dance for a second until he grabbed my shoulders and just held me still, hands warm and strong, causing my girl parts to croon. He brushed past me with a half smile and went into the loo.
Sober up, Harper, I told myself briskly, dragging my gaze off the bathroom door. Was he shaving in there? If so, I was a goner, because honestly, was there anything sexier than a man shaving? Was he brushing his teeth? Frooow. Granted, he could be hunched over the toilet, retching, and I probably would’ve found him incredibly hot.
“You’re pathetic,” I muttered, shaking my head at my own stupidity.
Back into the bedroom. Under the Brad-like gaze of Jesus, I climbed into bed, lifting up Coco and earning her please don’t beat me look. “Warm my feet, doggy,” I whispered, setting her down. “It’s freezing.” Then I pulled the covers to my chin. The bed was comfy, if icy. I’d always hated getting into a cold bed, the shock of the sheets bringing on dramatic bouts of shivering that I was unable to control. I huddled under the blankets, waiting to get warm. Coco, deciding that she really wasn’t the foot-warming type, moved to another corner of the bed, faithless diva that she was.
It was very quiet out here on the outskirts of town, on the prairie. The wind blustered outside, and the branch of a tree tapped against the window. In my little cocoon of blankets, the sheets smelled sharply fresh and clean, a testament to line-drying, but the usually lovely scent failed this time to slow my thudding heart.
A minute later, Nick came back into the room, and I closed my eyes, not wanting to see him, chicken that I was, then opened them. He wore plain green pajama bottoms and a faded Yankees T-shirt, thank God.
When we were married, he’d always slept in the buff. And I’d always worn one of his shirts, which he’d always enjoyed removing. Which I’d always quite enjoyed him removing.
This is the kind of rhetoric that leads to certain disaster, I told myself. Swallowed. Tried looking at Brad at Gethsemane to dull the thoughts of Nick and me back in the good old days.
Nick sighed, ran a hand through his unruly hair and went over to the other side of the bed. He took the other pillow off the unoccupied side of the bed and opened the closet. Withdrew a blanket and looked at me for a second. “You all set?” he asked.
“Mmm-hmm,” I answered.
“Goodnight, then,” he said. “Night.”
He turned off the light, and shafts of cold white moonlight sliced into the room. I listened as Nick lay down on the floor, there in front of the makeshift altar.
The wind gusted again. Coco sighed.
One blanket.
It was awfully cold in here.
“Nick.”
“Yeah?” The answer came instantly, and my heart clenched.
“Come to bed,” I said, my voice blessedly matter-of-fact. “It’s too cold to sleep on the floor.”
There was a pause. “You sure?”
“Yep.”
Mistake, dumbass, my brain told me in no uncertain terms. But crap. It wasn’t as if we were hormone-inflamed teenagers. We weren’t about to sleep together—well, of course we actually were, but nothing more. My goodness, you’re stupid, Brain informed me, and it was true. If a client had told me she was about to let her ex climb into bed with her, I would’ve been screechingly against it. But this was different (as all women tell themselves right before they make a huge mistake). This was just a mission of mercy.
The bed creaked as Nick got in. Coco gave a tiny growl, then jumped off the bed, disgusted that we’d had the nerve to disturb her. I lay on my side, facing away from Nick, a good foot between us, but I could already feel his warmth over there, like the sun, taunting me.
“Thanks,” Nick said.