14. Harlow
CHAPTER 14
HARLOW
I wake slowly, and happily, the next morning the way you do when you know you slept deeply and that you don’t have to get up and rush around.
The sun is streaming in through the window, I’m the perfect temperature, the pillow is the perfect softness, the room smells good. Then I roll over, look at the clock, and, right after realizing I slept until eight-thirty—which is unheard of—I realize that is not my clock.
I look down and realize this is not my duvet.
I look at the ceiling. Nope. That’s not mine either.
But I know whose it is.
It all comes flooding back.
As does the realization that this isn’t the guest room.
I’m not really surprised to find that I slept well at Jefferson’s.
I am very surprised to find that I slept well in Jefferson’s bed , though.
I roll to my back, clutch the duvet—which is really, really comfortable—to my chest and think.
I do not remember coming up to bed.
I don’t remember the end of the movie.
I lift the duvet and find I’m still in Jefferson’s t-shirt and my panties and I do remember putting those on.
But deductive reasoning means that I fell asleep watching the movie and Jefferson carried me up to bed.
To this bed.
His bed.
I did not wake up once in the night, so I have no idea if I slept in here alone. He might have slept in the guest room. I told him I wanted this bed because Graham told me it’s the most comfortable.
That doesn’t seem like something Jefferson would do though.
Except…I frown. It does.
Strangely.
If someone had asked me a week ago, I would have said no way would Jefferson let me sleep in the most comfortable bed and taken the other, but now…
He’s been doing little things like that ever since we started this crazy fake relationship. Things that should make sense since he’s playing my boyfriend, but all of this stuff is behind closed doors.
Yes, he’s held my hand and had his arm around me and kissed me in public.
But he also fed me Brussels sprouts and nicknamed me Lily in public.
The sweet stuff, the actual nice stuff, the stuff that would make me like him, has been in private. Letting me eat spicy popcorn. Going to my house to get the spices for that popcorn. Watching the movie I wanted to watch. Giving me a big comfortable shirt when he could have given me a tiny tank or something that would make me truly uncomfortable.
Yes, he ogled my legs in this shirt but…
I liked that too.
Telling me that I deserve to have things I like and want too.
Revealing that he really knows me and telling me that I need someone who can love me as hard as I love other people.
Nope, haven’t been able to stop thinking about that.
I put my hands over my face and groan.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I like Jefferson Riley.
Dammit.
Okay, to be fair I like some things about Jefferson Riley. Not everything. For sure.
But he’s been easy to be around and fake-date so far.
I might be in really big trouble.
“It’s been one fucking day,” I remind myself. Out loud.
But he watched the movie you wanted to last night, on purpose. He did it because he knows you don’t usually get to watch what you want to.
“It’s been One . Fucking. Day,” I say out loud again, trying to shut the quiet inner voice up.
But it doesn’t help.
I haven’t gotten to sit and watch a movie I wanted to with someone else in a long time. I do watch thrillers, but I typically have to do it alone. Which is definitely creepy.
Jefferson seemed to really enjoy the popcorn too.
His sofa is really comfortable.
And when Sloane texted me about thirty minutes into the movie to ask if I wanted to go down to the Come Again to hang out with a bunch of them, I said no.
I was really happy on Jefferson’s couch.
In Jefferson’s shirt.
With Jefferson.
Fuuuuuck .
I slowly turn my head to look at the pillow next to me.
There’s an indentation.
My gaze runs down that entire side of the bed. The sheet is wrinkled, the duvet thrown back.
I sit up.
He slept in here.
In this bed.
With me.
And instead of being annoyed or even angry that he’d dare, I feel disappointed that I slept through that.
What does he wear to bed? Did we cuddle? Did we touch at all? Was his warmth and presence why I slept so well? How did he sleep? Oh God, how did I look this morning when he woke up?
I throw the covers back and swing my legs over the edge of the mattress.
Okay, I need to get myself together. I should ask him those questions. I should ask why he carried me to bed instead of waking me up. Or leaving me on the couch. Does that mean something?
Or maybe…
I narrow my eyes.
Wait a damned minute. I know what this is.
This is Jefferson and me.
That means this is a game of chicken.
He wants to see how I react. If I’ll freak out. He’ll act unaffected by the whole thing. It’s fake, right? Why is it a big deal? Nothing happened. So I slept next to him half-naked. So what? And if I react, then that must mean I feel something.
So I can’t react. I can’t ask questions. I can’t make a big deal out of it.
We watched a movie and slept next to one another last night. The way I’ve done with Graham a million times.
Is Jefferson trying to tell me that if we did try to date, he wouldn’t even be tempted to touch me if I was sleeping, half-naked next to him?
Oh, okay, future ex-fake-boyfriend, I see what you’re doing. I can play this game.
And it’s my turn, I guess.
I put my dress from last night back on and make my way to the kitchen. I find a note by the single-serve coffee pot on the counter.
Had a morning work-out with some of the players, then have some festival stuff to help with. -J
He’s set a little bottle of cinnamon on the note with an empty mug and a dark roast coffee pod.
I frown. That’s nice.
So he doesn’t want to cuddle me at night, but he’ll make sure I have my morning coffee just the way I like it?
I start for the front door, intending to ignore all of that, but after I slip my shoes on, I get real.
It’s already two hours past my usual first cup and I’m going to have to walk home in heels. I return to the kitchen, make the cup, get annoyed that the dark roast is really pretty good, peek in the little drawer of pods to find that he has more of them, then take the cup with me as I head out the door.
I stop halfway down the walk. I could walk home. But it’s daylight, I’m in the dress and heels from last night so this definitely looks like a walk of shame, I didn’t get to have sex last night to warrant this walk of shame and…I don’t want to walk. So I borrow Jefferson’s truck that’s still in the drive.
I assume he jogged up to the high school for the work-out, but he’ll probably need his truck for whatever festival stuff he’s doing later, which means it will be inconvenient that I’ve got his truck.
Perfect.
When I get home, I shower, braid my wet hair, put on shorts, a tee, and tennis shoes, and then start loading Jefferson’s truck with essentials.
I get a text about an hour and a half after leaving Jefferson’s house.
Jefferson: Do you have my truck?
Me: I do.
Jefferson: Am I getting it back?
Me: Just needed it for a couple of errands. Is that okay, pookie? heart eyes emoji
Jefferson: Did you wreck it? I feel like ‘pookie’ is code for you wrecked it.
I laugh despite myself. It’s in perfect shape. But you need a nickname from your loving girlfriend.
Jefferson: I’m not sure I’m a nickname guy.
I just smile at that. He’s probably right. Then you should have picked another girlfriend.
He doesn’t respond for a minute, so I get in the truck and point it toward my next and final errand.
My phone dings again.
Jefferson: Do you need help with your errands?
I hesitate. He's offering to help. And that’s not just a fake-boyfriend thing. Jefferson is actually a nice guy and I think he’d offer no matter what. I think being his girlfriend would be a pretty easy gig. If you could get past the know-it-all-ness.
I'm getting a real taste of what being his actual girlfriend would be like and it’s making me feel things I shouldn’t.
Me: I’m good. When will you be home?
Jefferson: About an hour. Miss me already?
I smile. Not exactly but I am eager to see his reaction.
Me: Can’t believe you ate all the French toast before I woke up.
I’ll bet he actually makes really great French toast. He’s annoying like that.
Jefferson: Can’t believe you sleep without any blankets on at all.
I pause and read that twice. I really don’t like blankets. In fact, it takes me until well into December in Nebraska to even wear a coat. I run hot and I prefer as few layers as possible at all times. But that comment, while seemingly harmless, could mean a number of things considering how I was dressed last night and the fact I was wondering where he spent the night. Did he get an eyeful?
Be honest , he adds before I can respond, do you sleep in the nude at home?
I do actually.
Me: Wouldn’t you like to know?
Jefferson: I would. A lot. And next time you try to take your shirt off in bed, I’m not going to stop you.
I swallow hard. It’s not difficult for me to believe that I tried to strip down to nothing even if I was asleep.
I swallow hard and contemplate my next question.
I shouldn’t flirt. I shouldn’t talk about last night. I shouldn’t talk about nakedness with Jefferson.
But I send it even though I know it’s dangerous.
Me: Why did you stop me last night?
Jefferson: When you wake up naked next to me, I want you to remember everything.
I read that three times.
And my body gets hotter with each read.
He uses the word ‘when’. Not ‘if’. It doesn’t sound hypothetical.
I also realize that I’m thinking about where we’re each going to sleep tonight.
Dammit.
Such a gentleman , I finally text back.
Jefferson: Told you I wasn’t giving up the good mattress. But I do like when you beg.
My cheeks get hot. I begged him? For what exactly? To sleep with him? Oh, God. How had that sounded exactly? I wrack my brain but cannot remember anything after about an hour of the movie. Which is crazy. I never sleep that hard. I had two Jack and Cokes at dinner. And that hard cider at his place with the popcorn. But that shouldn’t have knocked me out like that. Which means I must have felt completely safe with Jefferson.
That realization is not shocking.
But now I’m wondering about the begging. I really want to remember that.
He could be messing with me. I do not want to fall into the trap of asking about it. I need to be nonchalant. I need to act as if he cannot get under my skin.
But he can. And even just acknowledging that to myself is problematic.
Me: Noted .
I stick with that as my response, hoping that niggles at him a little. If I don’t react then maybe he’ll wonder about why I’m not reacting.
Jefferson: Wanna go to the festival this afternoon? I have to do some stuff, but I’ll buy you funnel cakes.
One of the few sweets I really like.
Plus, the festival starts today. Of course I want to go.
And that will keep us from hanging out alone. Because if I was begging to be in his bed last night when I was half-asleep…or fully asleep apparently…God only knows what I might start begging him for when I’m conscious and we’re alone and he’s being…how he’s been.
Me: Yes. Duh.
We can play the part of boyfriend-girlfriend but not be alone , and we won’t have to worry about things like how comfortable we are together, and I won’t have to dwell on the fact that he’d probably actually be a pretty great boyfriend if I didn’t blame him for things like all of my best friends and one of my siblings leaving me.
Jefferson: Wear that yellow dress.
Me: You’re picking out my clothes now? Controlling much?
Jefferson: If you were my girlfriend, I would really like you in that dress. And you’d really like me liking you in that sundress.
He has to stop saying—texting—stuff like that. This feels like flirting. For real.
But I can’t help but think of other things that would happen if I was his girlfriend for real.
Like, if I was his girlfriend, I would wear my hair down loose and curled slightly, I’d wear my citrus-coconut body spray, and lotion.
Jefferson likes coconut.