My So-Called Sex Life (How to Date, #1)(37)

I head to the anteroom where he’s grabbing his toothpaste and toothbrush from his suitcase on the floor. Should I smile when he looks up? Yes, I’ll smile. When he rises, I grin stupidly as I waggle my toothpaste. “I need to brush my teeth.”

It’s the most obvious thing I’ve said in my entire life.

“I gathered,” he says, then brandishes his. “Me too.”

“You go first,” I say.

“No, you,” he says. “I insist.”

And we haven’t left Too Polite Depot at all. “Okay,” I say, then squeeze past him to the bathroom. When I’m done, I leave with an all yours right as he passes me, his shoulder brushing mine, sending a dangerous swoop through my chest.

I try to ignore the lingering warmth as I enter the bedroom. But while I root around in my suitcase, I freeze, one hand on my sleep shorts. Do I just put on my jammies then shout goodnight from the dark?

That’s even weirder.

Instead, I return to the anteroom still in my blouse and slacks. I wait there so I can say goodnight before I close the door to him.

I perch on the edge of the couch.

Is this made of stone? It’s the most uncomfortable piece of furniture I’ve ever sat on. As much as I can’t stand Axel, I can’t let him sleep on a cinder block.

Even though I can stand him now.

I very much can stand him.

That’s my new problem.

But the choice I’m about to make isn’t because of the melty, lusty, crushy feelings occupying me. It’s because of the friendly ones. When Axel emerges from the bathroom, I act on those feelings, patting the cement furniture. “This sofa is uncomfortable,” I begin.

Axel waves a hand dismissively, adopting a too-easy grin. “It’ll be good research. My heroes never get to sleep on anything comfortable.”

I don’t take the writing banter bait. I soldier on, determined to do the right thing. “We can share a bed,” I continue, keeping this offer cordial and above board.

Nothing salacious in my tone. No wink and a nod.

And just like that, he’s no longer looking at me in a friendly way. He stares like I just suggested we cliff dive into a stormy sea. He seems confused? Or maybe perturbed?

Oh, shit.

I hope I haven’t made things worse with my suggestion. “It’s only weird if we make it weird,” I add quickly. “And we won’t make it weird, right? I mean, it’s not like we’re going to make out.” I scoff at that ridiculous idea. That ought to help him feel more comfortable since he doesn’t want to make out with me.

But he’s quiet for a long beat, his jaw twitching. I have no idea what he’s thinking. “I didn’t think we were, Valentine,” he says evenly, and his tone is as impossible to read as his face.

I try harder. Patting the couch. “I mean, c’mon,” I say. “Try this out and you’ll see you have to sleep in the bed.”

Tentatively, he sits and then immediately cringes. “Is this couch a test of will?” he asks, seeming offended by the furniture.

“Pretty sure it’s used in reality shows to earn misery points,” I add.

“I’d be the first to surrender,” he says, and perhaps Axel has let go of whatever was bugging him moments ago.

Good. I want to return to normal. Or find a new normal with him.

I turn the thought over in my mind a few times. Yes, that’s what I’ve wanted lately with Axel—to find a path beyond our blow-up in the coffee shop, past our painful breakup. That’s what I’ve learned on this trip so far. My goal isn’t simply to survive him anymore.

It’s for us to start over as friends.

I try again to make the night a little easier for him. “So, you’ll share a bed with me? Don’t worry. I’m not a cuddler. You won’t wake up with me wrapped around you. I mean, that stuff only happens in books. Like accidental kisses,” I say, lightly. And I feel light for the first time since we discovered the booking agency married us.

“Only in books,” he echoes, and he’s smiling the slightest bit. On that hopeful note, I glance out the window, enjoying the nighttime view.

It’s dark. The train lights illuminate the path as we curve along a bend in the tracks. But neither one of us slams into the other.

“See? We didn’t just fall and land in each other’s laps, lips pressed together, like we would have in a book.” Though, a lot of things that happen in my romance novels haven’t happened in my real sex life. Like, say, great sex. Maybe someday I’ll have what my heroines are having.

“How does that even happen in stories? We never wrote an accidental kiss,” he says.

“I haven’t in my solo books either,” I say.

“I don’t understand how a kiss could be anything but intentional. Even if they’re in a cab, and the cabbie slams on the brakes and they wind up in each other’s arms, the thing that happens next is always intentional.”

“Kisses are deliberate,” I say, relieved that finally we’re talking again—like yesterday. But also like we did once upon a time, before our blow-up.

“And they should be,” he adds as the train swings around another curve.

Faster than I expected.

Before I’m even aware of what’s happening, I’m sliding closer to him, my hip slamming against his hip. He grabs my upper arm, holding me tight.