It looks clean.
There’s a bed, a couch, a coffee table, a small dresser, and a nightstand. One of us will have to take the bed and the other the pullout. I normally hate pullouts—thin mattress, poky springs—but I’m so tired, I almost don’t care.
It occurs to me, suddenly, that neither of us has pajamas with us.
What will we sleep in?
Does Rhys look as good out of his clothes as he does in them?
“Hey,” he says, and I swim to the surface of this flustering line of thought to find him watching me with one eyebrow arched, amused. “I’ll take the pullout.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. “You drove the whole day. You need good rest way more than I do.”
Also, he’s about twice my size, which means his weight will sag a pullout even more than mine. He’s way taller than I am. And—I eye him—broader.
Not hating Rhys has done something unfortunate to my brain. Because while I always knew, intellectually, that he was ridiculously attractive, now Iknow.
Broad shoulders. Muscles that strain the seams of his expensive dress shirt. At some point tonight, he rolled his sleeves, and his forearms are bare. They’re strong and sinewy and end in thick wrists and tapered fingers, the ones he was licking earlier…
Do. Not. Lick. The. Lawyer.
It’s just that I’m exhausted and my defenses are down. Impulse control is the first thing to go, right? And judgment?
Obviously, I don’t actuallywantto lick the lawyer. I was jiltedthis morning.
“Eden,” he says.
I pull my gaze away from his forearms and find him watching me, a question in his eyes.
Whoops.
“I’m really tired,” I explain.
“Which is why you’re taking the bed,” he says.
“We don’t even know if the couch is halfway comfortable.”
“It’sfine.” He tugs it open—blessedly, it’s already made up—and settles his body onto it.
It sags like a hammock in the middle.
“No way that will be comfortable all night. Get up.”
He pounds a fist against the sorry excuse for a mattress. “No. I’m happy here.”
“Get. Up.”
The corner of his mouth turns up. “Whoa. Bossy. Nope.”
I try to wrestle him off the pullout, grabbing his arm and tugging, then reaching for his shoulders and rolling, but he’s utterly immovable, even stronger than he looks. Under my hands, his body is warm and hard, all muscle, and unwanted warmth washes through me. I drop my grip, suddenly hot all over.
“Look in my bag,” he says.
“What?”
“My bag.” He points to his laptop bag, leaning against the cheap pressboard dresser.
I eye him suspiciously.
