“I already said that’s not happening.”
“Oh my God, Connor. You’re chivalrous, I get it. There’s noman more chivalrous than you, oh king of chivalry. You will yourself to a life of pain before allowing a female to take poor accommodations,” she deadpans.
“Are you done?”
“Depends. Did it work?” she asks, brows raised to the heavens.
“Nope.”
Gretchen throws her head back on a dramatic groan. “Fine. We’ll share the bed.”
A boisterous cackle erupts from my chest. The confounding look on Gretchen’s face has me dragging the laugh out a few seconds longer than necessary. On a dime, I straighten my expression and say, “No. You take the bed, I’ll sleep on the floor. It’s good for my back anyway.”
“You know what’s even better for your back?” She cocks her head. “A bed!”
She stomps into the bedroom like she’s won, forcefully kicks off her shoes and yanks out her hair tie. Are we fighting?Gliding to the dresser, she grabs a change of clothes while adding, “I’ll shower first.”
I stop her before the bathroom door closes. “I don’t think this is a good idea, Gretch.”
Her eyes roll to the back of her head as she leans against the doorjamb, arms crossed, hip popped. “Don’t overthink it, old man. We’ll put a wall of pillows down the middle. You won’t even have to look at me.”
Before I can object, she slams the door in my face and cranks the shower.
I cannot share a bed with this woman.
Toeing the line of unadulterated obstinance, I strip the sofa bed and pull all the extra bedding from the closet to make a pallet on the floor in the living room. Once it’s done, I collect everything I’ll need for my turn in the bathroom and cradle it in my arms. Then I wait, perched on the edge of the bed like a cheetah on the hunt—ready to pounce as soon as Gretchen opens the door. She won’t have a moment to protest what I’ve done before I lock myself inside the bathroom, drowning out her disapproving comebacks.
I’ll show her.
The bathroom door at last swings open and Gretchen emerges. My feet are dead weight beneath me as I take her in. She’s effortless beauty incarnate, draped in a crimson cotton sleep set that consists of shorts and a matching tank.
Are all appropriate parts of her body covered? Yes.
Does it matter? No.
Olive-toned skin made even richer after a day in the sun. The braid she’s draped over one shoulder. And those damn tortoise-shell glasses thatwillbe the death of me.
I repeat, I CANNOT SHARE A BED WITH THIS WOMAN.
I rush to the bathroom, close the door behind me and lock it with a forcefulclick.
Gretchen’s voice calls, “What side of the bed do y—” but I cut her off with the gush of the shower jets.
When I step out of the bathroom sometime later, Gretchen sits propped against the headboard watching television, a wall of pillows, as promised, running right down the middle of the mattress. She pays me no attention as I breeze past her.
Stepping into the living room, I come to an abrupt halt. The area where I made my pallet earlier has been cleared. Every blanket, every pillow—gone.
I pad back to the bedroom and level her with a stare. Deathly calm, I ask, “Where’s my stuff?”
“What stuff?”
I shift to block her view of the television, standing guard at the foot of the bed, arms crossed. “Gretchen.”
“Connor.”
“Where’s. My. Stuff,” I emphasize, finger pointed toward the living room behind me.
Her eyes follow the movement, feigning innocence. “Oh that? Yeah, I got rid of it.”
