Chapter 18
18
Ryan
Here’s the thing they don’t tell you about the Only One Bed scenario: there are a lot of details to deal with all at once. What side of the bed do you sleep on? Who gets which pillows? Where do you get undressed? What do you wear to bed?
I brush my teeth first, having grabbed my bag from the car, then Josie goes in, leaving me with all these questions. I usually sleep in boxers, but there’s no way I’m doing that tonight, so I put on the T-shirt I brought for tomorrow. I pick a side of the king-size bed at random and slide in, then start panicking because what is Josie going to wear? I imagine her coming out in lingerie, then smack that away because duh , of course she won’t. Then I imagine her in something cotton and cozy, which is somehow even more attractive.
She opens the bathroom door a sliver and says, “Um, Ryan?”
“Yep?” I say, stiffening.
“Can you, uh…turn off the light?”
Ah. Maybe it’s better that I won’t know what she’s wearing, what Josie Klein looks like before she falls asleep. I flick off my nightstand lamp and everything goes black. There’s a squeak of hinges as the bathroom door opens fully, followed by a soft thud and a muttered oof as she runs into something (the dresser?). Finally, the bed sags as she climbs in on the opposite side.
I’m sharing a bed with Josie Klein. This is so weird.
“Is this weird?” she asks.
“No!” I say, too quickly. “I mean, unless it’s weird for you, and then I’m happy to crash on the floor.”
“No, it’s fine,” she says softly.
We both go silent, and I stare up at the dark ceiling. I can’t stop replaying that kiss, how she tasted like sweet champagne and the salty ocean. I bet she tastes like spearmint now. It would be so easy to roll over and kiss her again, to feel the heat of her hands, the urgency of her touch as she explores my skin. I want to hear that soft moan again, feel the way she thrust herself against me.
Fuck, I’m hard just thinking about it. I turn on my side, away from her, even though she can’t see the effect she has on me.
“I’m sorry,” she says, breaking the silence. “I’ve been so mean to you over the past few weeks.”
My chest tightens with guilt. “I’ve been just as mean. Maybe worse.”
“I don’t know about that. I really wanted to beat you. So badly.”
Wanted? Not sure why she’s speaking in the past tense.
“Xander put us in a shitty position,” I say, shifting so I’m on my back. “How about we stop blaming each other or ourselves?”
A soft chuckle. “I’m always happy to blame Xander.”
We’re silent again, and the sheets rustle as she rolls toward me. Something tickles my arm—her hair. My skin breaks into goose bumps, and I have to clench my hands into fists to keep from reaching over and touching the soft strands.
“So, uh…was it Xander who called my store a bleak existential wasteland?” she says, and I go rigid. In a softer voice, she adds, “And Eddie told me you said there’s not enough caffeine in the entire coffee shop to keep my customers awake.”
My heart sinks; yes, I said those things. No wonder she was so prickly toward me.
“I’ve given you grief about not understanding romance, but—” I swallow. “I’ve done the same to you. I’m really sorry. I was wrong. About your books. And about you.”
“I’m sorry, too,” she says. There’s silence again, like we’re both digesting this.
“Do you think we would’ve been friends?” Josie asks, after a bit. “If we’d given each other a chance before Xander pitted us against each other?”
I think about that. We became friends easily online, but in real life, I’d already judged her for being snooty and unapproachable.
If I hadn’t? Maybe I could’ve gotten to know this side of her a long time ago.
“I think so,” I say finally.
She exhales, and I catch a slight whiff of that minty toothpaste I’m dying to taste.
“Have you thought about what you’ll do if—if you don’t win?” The sadness in her voice settles in the empty space between us. Again, guilt niggles at me; I have another option, even though I don’t really want it.
“Yeah, I…” I lick my lips. “A friend of mine is opening a romance bookstore in Provincetown, and they’re trying to get me to join.”
“Oh.” The word is a surprised puff of air. “And will you?”
“Maybe. If it comes to that, which I hope it won’t.” I clear my throat, uncomfortable at the thought. “What about you?”
There’s a rustling noise as she shifts her weight. More of her hair brushes against me—my neck and shoulder—and I lift my finger and stroke it. Gently enough that I hope she doesn’t notice.
“I don’t have anything else,” she says in an almost whisper.
“But you could find something.” I believe that without a doubt. “Any bookstore would be lucky to have you.”
My eyes are adjusting to the dark, and I can make out the shape of her now as I look over. She’s lying on her side, facing me, the covers dipping at the curve in her waist. I’m still touching the lock of her hair, and if she can see me as well as I can see her, she knows it. But she doesn’t pull away.
“Maybe,” she says. “If it comes to that—which I hope it won’t.”
She’s repeating my words back to me, and I chuckle softly. “Yeah.”
“So, um…” She sighs. “Are we going to be enemies again when we get home? What was it you said—go back to destroying each other’s prospects for the future?”
I huff out a mirthless laugh. “Well, you’re beating me, so…”
“No, Xander said you’re slightly ahead.”
Startled, I turn. “He told me you are slightly ahead.”
I feel the bed shift as she rolls onto her back. It moves her hair away from me, and I immediately miss it. “That little sneak—I knew he was trying to manipulate us, but this is…”
“Low,” I say. “Even for Xander.”
Josie groans, lifting her hands and slapping them against the bed in frustration. “I wish we could turn the tables on him.”
“Me too, but how? Xander holds all the power here.”
I hate feeling like a puppet in his stupid game. But that’s exactly what we are.
Josie doesn’t speak again, and soon my eyes drift shut.
“Ryan?” Josie says.
My eyes open. “Hmmm?”
“It would be okay if you came over and said hi sometime. When you’re not busy, I mean,” she adds quickly. “Sometimes my store can get a little…”
“Lonely?”
“I was going to say quiet,” she says. “But that too.”
She sounds so small and sad that I want to roll toward her and scoop her up, pull her against me, and press a kiss to the top of her head.
But of course, I don’t. I stay on my side of the bed, as close to the edge as possible.
“I’ll come say hi,” I whisper.
She yawns, a sweet and intimate sound. “Thanks,” she murmurs.
I close my eyes and drift off, too.
—
I wake to a golden glow behind my eyelids and something warm and soft pressed against my back. My eyes open slowly to see an unfamiliar room, lit by morning light filtering through lacy curtains.
The warm softness against my back? It’s Josie, spooning me from behind. One of her arms is draped over my waist, her fingertips brushing the bare skin on my stomach where my T-shirt has shifted up.
Who would’ve guessed that Josie Klein is a cuddler?
I swallow rapidly and try to figure out what to do. She’s asleep—her deep breathing gives it away, plus I’m sure she wouldn’t be doing this if she was conscious. Yes, we made out last night, and yes, I had my hand under her bra, and she almost took off my pants—but that was last night, in the dark on the beach, with champagne fuzzing our minds. It’s morning now, a new day. Somehow, this seems even more intimate.
My own breathing is shallow. I’m hard and getting harder.
It would be so easy to turn toward her and let nature take its course. See if she comes to me as easily as she did on the beach, eager and hungry. But she made it clear that this was just sleeping , and I would never want to make her feel uncomfortable.
But I also can’t stay here getting more and more aroused, so I slowly slide away, pulling the covers off my legs and slipping out of bed as carefully as possible. I glance back as she sighs and shifts onto her back, still asleep. My shoulders drop in relief.
Or disappointment?
I pause, taking in the rare sight of Josie Klein utterly at rest. Her hair is loose and wavy, her cheek creased from the pillow, her eyelashes thick and full. She’s wearing an oversized cotton T-shirt that has what looks like a dictionary entry printed on it.
Abibliophobia
noun.
1. The fear of running out of books to read.
My lips twitch in a smile.
Now there’s my BookshopGirl. No doubt about it.
—
In the bathroom, I grip the edges of the sink and stare at myself in the mirror. My hair is wild, my eyes even more so—I look like a guy whose brain has been thoroughly scrambled.
I started this trip hoping to figure out which side of Josie was real, and now I have my answer: Josie may be icy on the outside, but she’s a warm ball of softness on the inside. What still isn’t clear is what I do now. Specifically, how do I tell her what I know? And when? We’ll be in the car for two hours together this morning heading back to Boston.
But for some reason, my gut is telling me not yet.
I will tell her—I just need to figure out the best way to do it, a way that doesn’t make her feel ambushed or cornered. She just started barely not-hating me; I need to find a way to bridge the gap between the man she thought was her enemy and the guy she knows behind the screen.
Which leaves one more question. What am I hoping for? Assuming Josie finds out and she doesn’t hate me again…what do I want to happen between us?