“This isn’t over,” he grumbles, then walks into the bedroom. There’s some rustling, and I go back to my book, unconcerned.
There’s a small, reasonable part of me that knows I shouldn’t be pushing it like this. Gideon and I used to know each other; we don’t, anymore. Our truce—our friendship?—feels fragile and sticky as spiderwebs, and I should be gently building trust and establishing rapport or whatever people do in these situations.
But there’s this face Gideon makes when he pretends to be annoyed with me but isn’t, or at least when he’s not as annoyed as he’s pretending to be, and that face delights me like little else.
Some of it is pure, giddy relief. Some is cabin fever and boredom. Some is pure, simple enjoyment at getting a reaction out of him, and I’ve chosen not to examine that last thing too closely. He was the closest thing I had to a sibling when I was a kid, so noticing how he looks in sweaters and well-fitting hiking pants feels a little odd and uncomfortable, like I’m some Jezebellian pervert and he’s still the church-going innocent he once was.
Though I’m pretty sure he doesn’t go to church anymore, and I can only assume that in the last twenty years he’s gotten up to some perversion of his own. Which is another very impolite thought, Jesus, I’m done with that now.
Also, he won’t even sleep in the same room as me, which suggests that he probably feels the same way as far as appropriate thoughts are concerned.
“Off,” he says, walking back into the main room, carrying his own sleeping bag and pillow. He stops by the side of the couch, looming over me, and in the low light of the wood stove, two oil lamps, and the headlamp I’m using to read, it’s actually a little intimidating.
“No,” I say anyway.
“Andi,” he says. “We’ve already established a precedent here. I sleep on the couch, you sleep on a bed.”
“Here’s the thing, though,” I say, and finally quit pretending to read. “I’m on the couch already, so you may as well go sleep in a bed, particularly because your ankle is still healing and I need you to drive me into town tomorrow.”
“I can’t let you sleep on the couch.”
“I bet you can.”
Gideon gives a resigned sigh, then turns and drops his sleeping bag and pillow on the floor behind himself. Then he pulls his sweater over his head—I’m still wearing the blue one I borrowed—and unbuttons and pulls off the flannel shirt he’s got on underneath.
All he’s got on now is a dark gray long-sleeved thermal shirt—the kind with the waffle weave—that he’s wearing a base layer, and the thing about base layers is that they’re close-fitting. That’s, like, the point of base layers. They’re tight so you can put more clothes over them.
Which is to say: now I’m staring at Gideon’s back in this tight shirt as he rubs his hands over his face, which makes all the muscles in his back and shoulders bunch and flex in the dramatic, flickering lights.
I stare. My brain momentarily clears into light static and a distinct feeling of dismay at my reaction. It’s not—I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t.
“Andi,” he groans, all low and rough, into his hands, and I can feel my eyes go wide. What the fuck. “C’mon.”
I almost say yes, but come to my senses.
“I live on this couch now,” I announce, burrowing as far as I can into the cushions.
“Don’t make me do this.”
“Go sleep in a bed like a regular person,” I tell him, the sleeping bag all the way up to my chin. “Isn’t the whole point of this that you can’t sleep in the same room as me anyway? Shoo.”
He heaves another deep sigh, and it moves his shoulders and back a little, and it’s alarmingly appealing, is what it is.
“Don’t shoo me,” he mutters, and turns, and shirt is actually quite tight and he’s so pretty and stern and he pushes the sleeves up to his elbows, and who the fuck gave him permission? Wasn’t me.
“If you don’t want me to shoo you, then—HEY WHAT THE FUCK?!”
Gideon crouches, shoves his hands under me, and lifts me off the couch like I’m a pile of laundry in need of folding, and it’s unfair and undignified and also very hot and that’s a hell of a combination.
“Warned you,” he says, turning for the bedroom.
“Okay, no,” I say, squirming against him. I succeed in knocking my sleeping bag off, but not much else. “You can’t just—”
“Try not to struggle too much, I don’t want to hurt my ankle again,” he says calmly.
“Then put me down.”
“I will.”
“Now, asshole.”
“The less you struggle, the sooner I’ll put you down,” he says, turning sideways to go through the bedroom doorway, his arms tightening around me, and he’s very solid and very warm and wow, his face is close right now. And he’s touching my butt, technically, and his fingers are splayed along my ribcage in a spot that’s kinda grazing my underboob, and I’m glad for the low light because I’m ten thousand shades of red right now.
“Why won’t you let me help you?” I shout, and grab the door frame. Gideon grimaces, hissing through his teeth, and I let go instantly. “Sorry,” I gasp. “Are you—”
The fucker just gives me a smug smile, walks two more steps, and dumps me onto a twin bed so hard the frame creaks.
“Ow,” I say, and instantly, he looks worried.
“Sorry, are you—”
I grab his wrist and pull. Gideon stumbles toward the bed and catches himself with his other hand so he’s leaning over me, and before I can think about it I knock that arm from under him and shove.
Gideon is heavy. He’s also full of complaints, but he’s off-balance for a few seconds so I take advantage of it and push him as hard as I can to the other side of the narrow, tiny bed, wriggling out from underneath him so I can get back to the couch.
I’ve almost made it—just one foot stuck under his thighs—when he lurches forward, hooks and arm around my waist, and slams me back onto the bed.
“Ow!” I yelp, mostly for effect.
“Sorry,” he says, but doesn’t seem particularly sorry because he’s still got a forearm braced across my ribcage, and he uses it as leverage to push himself to sitting.
“I can’t breathe,” I say, and now he’s flipped himself over, still holding me down, and we’re face to face and it’s very close to dark, and I’m having nothing but bad ideas.
“You can breathe enough to complain,” he points out, which is rude, even if it’s true. “You gonna stay down this time, or—”
I wriggle enough to free one leg, hook it around his hips, and shove with my entire body so hard that he rolls and hits the wall, which makes it shake, which makes both of us freeze for a second, like we’re waiting for the whole cabin to fall down around us.
Thankfully, it doesn’t.
“Be careful,” I say, pushing myself up so I can use my weight to grab his shoulder and pin him, sort of.
“That was your fault,” he says, seamlessly grabbing my wrist and rotating it so it’s behind my back, which pushes me wildly off-balance enough that I very nearly face-plant into his chest. I’m breathing hard, and a lot of my body is touching a lot of Gideon’s body, and he’s definitely winning this dumb wrestling match, and oh my god what was I thinking. Gideon’s the oldest of twelve. He can probably wrestle a smaller person into gentle, unharmed submission in his sleep.