I slow blink. “I’ll close the door. I’ll be quiet.”
She shakes her head harder in defiance. “I hate to tell you this, but you have to sleep in my room. On the floor,” she adds.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious. We can’t blow it now. If we do, what was the point of all this today?”
While sleeping on the floor in her room is not the best-case scenario, as she’s pointed out, it’s not the worst case either.
We’re both adults. Moreover, we’re friends. We can manage this.
I think.
“Okay. Fine. I’ll sleep on your floor,” I say.
“You can have the bed if you want it.”
“Right. Like I’m going to let you sleep on the floor.”
She shrugs as she opens the door. I follow her inside.
“Liv has way too much time on her hands,” I say, taking in the scene in front of me.
My bag has been moved from the room upstairs and placed on a chair by the door. There are four or five heart-shaped balloons in the corner. An ice bucket with a bottle of champagne sits by the bed, next to two long-stemmed glasses. It’s not the most romantic thing in the world I’ve ever seen, but it’s a lot for the time she had to work with.
“Well, this makes things awkward,” Sophie mutters.
She marches over to the champagne and pops the cork like an expert. She fills one glass most of the way. She takes little time in emptying it again.
It’s clear she’s amped up by this whole thing, and I can’t say I’m sorry. Knowing I’m not alone in my over- yet understimulation does help. There’s a bit of satisfaction in that, and right now, I’ll take all that I can get.
She holds a hand to her mouth to cover a belch as she looks at me. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say with a grin.
“Do you want a glass?”
“Nope. I think one of us needs to stay reasonable.”
“I’m reasonable.” She narrows her eyes before pouring herself another drink. “I don’t normally drink like this. Or ever. But since you came around, here I am.”
“I don’t think a lot of that has to do with me.” I take a couple of blankets off the end of her bed and spread one on a rug on the floor. The sooner we separate and get the light off, the better. “The first time had nothing to do with me, actually.”
She shrugs as if the point I’ve made is moot.
I take a pillow off her bed—one from the farthest side from the door—and plop it down on the blanket. She monitors my progress while downing the second glass of champagne.
The vibe in the room changes, as does the feeling between us. Instead of being playful and lighthearted, veins of uncertainty run amok. She feels it. It’s obvious when she goes for the champagne again.
I walk across the room and snatch it out of her hand.
“Hey,” she protests. “Gimme that.”
“Afraid not.”
Her forehead furrows. The champagne starts to hit her full force, because she has a hard time focusing on me.
“Marriage rule number one: don’t tell me what I can and cannot do,” she says.
“I thought number one was that you aren’t doing my laundry?” I grin. “Or was it that I’m not supposed to tell you to settle down?”
She fights a smile but gives in. “Fine. Make that rule number two. Or three. I don’t care. Just remember it.”
“I certainly will. But marriage rule number four is that I can’t watch you do something that I think you’ll regret later.”
She spreads her arms wide. “My room. My house. My champagne even, probably. And you’re now my husband. Pretty sure it’s safe.” She reaches for the bottle again.
“You’re right. This is your room and house, and it probably is your champagne. And I am your husband. But I want you to wake up in the morning and remember exactly what happened tonight.”
She grins a lopsided grin. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
It takes every ounce of self-restraint that I have not to lunge forward and kiss the hell out of her—self-restraint I didn’t even know I had. I run a hand down the leg of my pants and try to sneakily adjust myself in the process.
“That means,” I say carefully, willing myself to not give in to the fire rushing through my body, “that you are going to remember that I slept on the floor and you curled up in bed and we went to sleep.”
Her face falls. “Oh.”
I toss her a wink and set the bottle on the floor by my bag.
“You know, I didn’t have you pegged as a party pooper,” she says.
I dig through my stuff and find a pair of sweatpants and a black T-shirt. “Yeah, well, I didn’t peg myself to be the lame one either.”
She gasps. “Are you insinuating that I’m lame?”
I wad the shirt in my hands and stand to face her. “Believe it or not, ‘lame’ is not one of the first fifty words I’d use to describe you.”
She smiles, obviously proud of herself. “I’m glad we’re on the same page, then.”
“Me too.”
A lock of hair falls in her face. She half blows, half spits it out of the way.
I stand and watch her, wondering how someone can be this adorable and this sexy at the same time. It’s mind-blowing. Usually women are one or the other—a sexpot or a little-sister type. Sophie is both.
What do I do with that?
She walks across the room. Her shoe catches on the edge of the rug, and she uses the momentum to propel herself into her closet.
“What are you doing?” I ask with a laugh.
Her head pops around the corner. “I’m going to change for bed. Don’t peek.”
“Only if you don’t peek either.”
“Ha.”
As soon as she’s out of sight, I make quick work of changing my clothes. My eyes stay trained on the closet door.
I need a shower. My body is so tense it aches. Sweat trickles down my back. A bit of privacy would probably do me about five minutes of good—just long enough to take care of business. But I’m not about to hit the shower and leave her with the champagne . . . or give up one of the only nights I’ll have in this close proximity with her.
Even if I am on the floor.
I need to be on the floor. Don’t complicate this, McKenzie.
This all might be temporary, but it is enjoyable. I’ve never experienced something like this. If this is what marriage is, I might not be as averse to it as I thought.
I fold my clothes and set them on top of my bag. Just as I’m turning around, Sophie comes out of her closet. Relief washes over me when I see she’s put on a pair of shorts and a button-up pajama top.
Then she turns around and I see the bottom curve of her ass, and I groan. Thankfully, it’s covered by the sound of dishes in the kitchen.
Sophie’s eyes go wide. “They’re doing dishes? Are they freaking serious?”
“Want me to kick them out?”
“I mean, yeah. It’s . . . weird. What if we were in here . . .” She giggles. “How embarrassing would that be?”
It’s clear the champagne has started to work its magic. She places a hand on the bed as she continues to giggle.