“Have you ever heard of people who don’t need much sleep?”
“No. That’s absurd.”
“It’s a thing. Everyone needs sleep, but apparently there is a subset of people who don’t need as much sleep as everyone else. Like four hours a night, maybe six, and I am completely functional. We tend to be…”
“Yes?” she asked, drawing it out as she stretched and waited for some egomaniacal claim. “Superheroes? Aliens? Rocket scientists?”
“I wish,” he snorted back. “We’re more, uh… type A. Intense. Overachievers… but not necessarily in a good way.”
“You’re telling me that you operate on less sleep than the rest of humanity? And this makes you a more productive and motivated human?” Damp terrycloth met toe, and she cringed that she’d left her towel crumpled on the floor since yesterday. No hooks, thus it wasn’t her fault. She plucked up the towel and wrapped it around herself for the dash to the bathroom.
If Jagger was going to be over on more sleepovers, she would have to either buy nicer towels, or find her bathrobe. Not that she cared that the towel was ancient and threadbare. In the rush of moving home when their mom was sick, she had brought home only what was worth shipping in boxes or by air, and Evan only brought what fit in his Jeep, so when they moved into the rental house, they scraped together towels that had existed in their parents’ home since they were children. If Finn’s plush hand towels were any indication, pro athletes liked nicer towels than this rental house had to offer.
Ryder laughed out loud, and his arrogance was laced with a self-effacing wit that still surprised her. “No, that’s just a correlation. I’m saying I have chronic, blisteringly annoying insomnia, but my body literally needs less sleep, so I give up usually by four in the morning and start my day.”
“You’re kind of adorable,” she said, easing the door open and checking that no one was up yet.
“Back to the wet and naked thing—”
A wicked laugh erupted from low in her chest and she silenced it to keep from waking Evan and Jagger.
“You’ve got a boyfriend, I’m married to my job, and we’re going to be spending a lot of platonic time together in the foreseeable future. I already spend my sleepless nights thinking of you naked, so please don’t make it worse. It was not flirting, but me requesting mercy. And maybe a little flirting.”
Damn the man was cute and adorably honest. She whispered as she closed herself into the bathroom and flicked on the fan—for white noise and for the terribly ventilated old house. “You’re already driving over here, aren’t you?”
“I’m almost to your driveway.”
“Well, I will literally be wet, naked, and nauseous, so come on in and help yourself to coffee and whatever else appeals from the kitchen, and if you happen to pop some bread in the toaster for me, that will ease the nausea bit and reduce the odds of me vomiting on you.”
“I can do that. Anything on the toast?”
“Peanut butter.”
“You got it,” he said, his smile radiating through the call and flooding her with a wild sense of relief she hadn’t anticipated. “See you soon.”
Morning sickness. Ha. Only the first of many misnomers and inaccurate descriptors of the shit pregnant women went through. Zoe felt the murmur of argument in her stomach, and now that she knew food was the answer, she began every morning with a piece of peanut butter toast.
But it didn’t end there. All damn day. Lunch was tricky, as she had to choke down as much fruit as she could endure, to compensate for the lack of produce at breakfast and keep the digestive tract moving.
Suds coated her hair, and she quickly rinsed off, then slicked on conditioner, soap, and rinsed it all off in one combo move. Zoe rushed the ritual for both her stomach and her company.
He’d been awfully quick to cancel breakfast with his mother.
Too quick.
Either he’d made up the planned meal to sound like a good person, as good people did things with their mothers, or he was glad to have an excuse to cancel.
Fucking hell, that woman’s DNA was going to share a part in her little peanut? Halseth energy plus Mallory intensity? The terrible twos were going to be interesting.
Dammit, she should have considered the one-nighter would increase her bond with that permanently constipated human. Now that she knew the sensation of complete backup and the misery of evacuating it, she understood the association between constipation and irritability. Zoe was a bitch and a half when things refused to budge.
The wee hot water tank was already tapped out, and nothing but lukewarm poured over her now. She flicked off the faucet. Had Evan and Jagger already showered? Normally the tank covered two splurgy showers, but if Evan was using the shower for a little friendly time—
Grrr. She shivered at the lack of blistering heat to compensate for the paper-thin towel and quickly patted dry and slipped out of the bathroom.
No privacy in the tiny rental.
Evan’s idea to save on cash, instead of getting a place with two bathrooms and insulation that hadn’t decomposed decades ago. And she’d gone with it.
