Turner lifts a brow. “Definitely not a murderer.”
Another thud. A door creaks.
And then?—
“Shhhhhh, Nugget, stop looking at me like that,” a familiar voice slurs. “I’m not throwing the ball. Go back to bed.”
A second voice—higher-pitched and giggly—adds, “I’m hungry. You said you were gonna make me grilled cheese!”
Then—
“Oops. Wrong room.”
I scramble backward just as Cash—shirtless, with a ball cap on backwards and a young woman hanging onto his arm like she’s afraid of gravity—or can’t stand in heels—leans against the doorframe of Turner’s room.
They’re both clearly intoxicated…
My shoulders relax as Cash squints at us. “Dudes. Am I hallucinating or are you two in bed together?”
Turner leans against his headboard. “It’s two-thirty in the morning.”
Cash tries to focus on us through bleary eyes. “Is she crying?”
“No I am not crying, you asshole!” I chuck a decorative pillow toward him. It misses. “You scared the shit out of us!”
“She thought you were a murderer,” Turner deadpans.
The girl on his arm giggles, still clinging like she’s worried about falling into another dimension. “He said he was making grilled cheese,” she slurs, like that explains everything.
I throw my hands up. “At two in the morning?”
“Is there abadtime for grilled cheese?” Cash counters, like it’s the most profound question he’s ever asked. “We were looking for the kitchen. Took a wrong turn.”
The girl waves sleepily. “Nice to meet you,” she says to no one in particular. “I’m Paige!”
Welp, Paige is adorable.
Drunk and adorable.
They vanish.
The door clicks shut.
Silence.
And then—Turner exhales. A long, slow, groggy breath, like the past ninety seconds were a dream he hasn’t fully woken from. His arm—still slung across the mattress—bends at the elbow and hooks around my waist.
Gently.
Casually.
Before I can fully process what’s happening, he’s tugging me toward him, rolling back into the mattress with a groan and taking me with him. My knee brushes his hip. My hand lands on his stomach.
Barestomach.
Abs.
Warm, taut, sleep-soft.
