Chapter 26
Josephine
We arrive at the hotel several hours after the team. When Kylian said we didn’t have to leave until evening, I thought that was a great idea. But now that I’m faced with settling in after Decker and the guys have been here for hours, I’m doubting that line of thinking.
I raise my keycard up to the door, then pause. Should I knock? Can I assume Kylian texted him when we arrived?
Whatever.
The smell of generic cleaner hits me when I step inside the room, followed by a scent that’s warm, sensual, and heady. Decker. He may be an infuriating, broody asshole, but damn, he smells divine.
I creep through the doorway and scan the space. The room is nothing special—dimly lit and an average size. Just a standard room in a chain hotel.
I catalog the TV mounted on the beige wall and the small table and café chairs set off in the corner. An abstract industrial print is the only décor. That, and the two silver and white sconces that frame the headboard of the bed.
The one single king-size bed.
Panic radiates through every limb as I survey the singular sleeping surface.
There’s only one bed.
Why the hell is there only one bed?
And not only that. There’s no couch. No cot or rollaway. Not even a cushioned chair.
This is not going to work. Sharing a room is one thing, but I can’t sleep on the floor.
I’ll be better off sneaking into Kylian’s room, or even Locke’s, and dealing with the consequences.
What could Decker even do? Scold me? Ground me?
Spank me? Carry me caveman-style back to his room and tie me to the bed?
A throat clears behind me, from near the doorway I just walked through.
“Josephine.”
The broody bastard himself leans out of what appears to be the bathroom, arms braced on the doorframe.
He’s shirtless, because of course he is.
Decker fucking Crusade. Freshly showered and still dripping wet.
I allow myself two seconds of ogling, sweeping my gaze over the hard muscles of his chest and the dip of his slender hips, before I take a measured step backward, deeper into the room.
“You made it.” His tone is conversational. As if he’s Mister Nice Guy all of a sudden. He runs one of his huge hands through his still-wet hair, then offers me the smallest hint of a smile.
He’s acting different. Softer. Maybe even cordial? But the shift in behavior doesn’t have time to fully register. I’ve got a one-track mind, and I can’t help but blurt out the obvious.
“There’s only one bed,” I accuse.
A grimace colors his expression.
“Yeah. About that… The hotel is fully booked because of the game. The team always requests king-size beds, and by the time I thought to call…” His arms flex as he grips the doorframe and drops his attention to his bare feet.
He’s wearing athletic shorts, at least. Solid black—like his soul.
The band of his Calvins peeks out of the top, taunting me.
But I don’t have the luxury of being distracted by Decker Crusade’s underwear right now.
We have to figure this out so I can ease the unbridled fear threatening to consume me.
“You expect me to believe the almighty Decker Crusade couldn’t get a room change request?”
Dark eyes dancing with playfulness meet mine as he pushes his tongue into his cheek and smirks. “Almighty, huh?”
I don’t have it in me to respond to his flirtatious jab. My brain is already seizing up, and the first licks of panic are caressing my insides. Every nerve in my body is on high alert. Every muscle is locked up tight.
Decker lowers his arms and takes a tentative step toward me.
I immediately take two steps back.
“We’re not in Lake Chapel, Josephine,” he murmurs, brows dipping low as he watches me. “I don’t have any pull in this town or with these people. The bed situation is what it is.”
I huff out a breath, shooting for annoyance rather than trepidation. “The other guys have kings, too?”
Maybe we could switch rooms. Hell, I’d be willing to subject myself to Kendrick’s wrath if it meant I didn’t have to sleep on the floor.
Decker grits his teeth. “They do. But we’ve already been over this. Even if they didn’t, that’s not an option. I need them focused and ready for tomorrow. There’s no alternative to this arrangement.”
This arrangement. This shit-tastic situation in which he’ll insist on taking the bed and I’ll be stuck on the floor.
I’ve done more than my fair share of sleeping rough.
Though not every one of those situations has been terrible.
I’ve slept on friends’ couches. I’ve crashed in the back seat of cars.
But I fell asleep leaning up against the front door more times than I can count when my mom forgot that she had a child and was supposed to be responsible for another human life.
On those nights, Mrs. Rubin would inevitably find me outside. She’d shake me gently and wordlessly indicate that I should follow. She’d let me sleep on the pull-out couch in her trailer, then make a huge breakfast in the morning and insist she made much more than she could possibly eat on her own.
So yeah, I’ve spent plenty of nights sleeping rough. But not since that night.
I need pillows. Sheets. A comforter to cocoon myself in so that the moment I come to, I have a grip on reality. I need the comfort of a bed to convince myself of what’s real—of where I am, and more importantly, of where I’m not.
Sleeping on the floor—on any floor, or on the ground, in any situation—has the power to send me catapulting into an episode.
Decker’s making me room with him because he thinks I’m going to run? This. This is what’ll make me run. This’ll send me over the edge.
I know how my body and brain will react if I try to sleep on the floor. Being that exposed and vulnerable is not an option.
And I refuse to let Decker Crusade see me like that. I won’t throw away everything I’ve worked for over the last few years, including my solid grasp on reality, to bend to his will and appease this man.
But how the fuck am I supposed to explain conversion disorder to this heartless bastard?
“Josephine.”
Trying to calm my breathing and keep my cool, I reluctantly meet his gaze.
His eyes widen in surprise, but to his credit, he doesn’t look away. I’m sure he wasn’t expecting me to react this way. I wasn’t fucking expecting it, either.
“You’re freaking out right now. Talk to me.”
It’s not a request.
And yet… my mouth opens and closes twice in an attempt to reply. But no words come out. I gulp, then try in earnest to slow my racing thoughts.
If I don’t calm down, I’ll end up having an attack right now, triggered by the prospect of having an attack later. Anxiety. It’s the shittiest shit.
I mumble something that I hope sounds like “just give me a second” and close my eyes, resorting to a mindfulness exercise.
I inhale through my nose and hold it for four counts. Opening my eyes, I scan the room for something I can see: a pillow. I see a pillow. I exhale, blowing out for four counts.
With another long, deep breath, I focus on what I smell. Decker’s body wash. Sea salt and amber. Ocean air and summer nights. I smell Decker’s body wash.
Exhaling, I close my eyes and strain to hear something—anything—over the sound of my accelerated heartbeat whooshing in my ears. Music. Something low and melodic, folksy and soulful. Decker is playing music in the bathroom. The strum of a guitar and a male voice. I hear music.
There it is.
Calm washes over me. I’m okay.
Embarrassed by my reaction but decidedly more centered, I meet his gaze again.
“I can’t do it,” I say with as much steel in my voice as I can muster.
“Can’t do what?” he asks, running his thumb along his bottom lip, examining me.
Unable to maintain eye contact any longer, I hang my head. I’m about to reveal a vulnerability I don’t like sharing with the people I’m closest to, let alone a man who could damn well turn around and use it against me in harrowing, damaging ways.
I focus on the bed as I answer his question.
“I can’t sleep on the floor. I’m not trying to be difficult or dramatic.
But I physically can’t. Something… something happened to me years ago.
Now I have conversion disorder, which causes paralyzing panic attacks.
If I panic for too long, I’m afraid I’ll slip away again.
Please. Don’t ask me about it. I just need you to believe me. I’m… I’m begging you, Decker.”
After several seconds of silence, I peek up at him through my lashes, finding his onyx eyes locked on me with so much intensity it hits me like a physical blow, and I flinch.
“Please don’t make me sleep on the floor.”
I hate being at anyone’s mercy, but unless I’m honest with him, there’s no way I’ll get through this night.
Decker frowns at me, but for once, his dark eyes aren’t hard.
Instead, his expression is stoic and thoughtful.
I wish I could get a read on him. Though the disdain has dissipated, his eyes bore into me until I swear I can feel him under my skin.
Whether he’s trying to intimidate or just figure out if I’m lying, it’s working.
I’m totally and completely exposed in this moment.
Flustered, I look away first. What’s the point of staring him down? He knows the power he holds over me right now. There’s no sense in pretending otherwise.
When the silence continues to stretch, making my stomach sink with dread, I steal a glance in his direction. But he’s not there. He moved—and he’s coming right at me.
I stiffen when his fingers find my chin. Then I sink into the feel of his hand on my face when the tenderness of the gesture registers. His touch is gentle in the most unexpected way.
“Josephine,” he murmurs.
My eyes shutter closed from the gentleness in his voice. He’s said my name dozens of times in the last week. But never like this.
“You’re okay. You’re safe. You don’t have to sleep on the floor. No fucking way.”
I release a breath and will myself not to cry. I hate when people are nice to me. Kind. Compassionate. Because it never lasts.
“You’re okay,” he repeats as his fingers brush against my skin and the edge of his thumbnail traces my lower lip.
I quickly catch my lip between my teeth to stop it from trembling. His kindness is disarming. I never imagined that he’d offer to take the floor, especially considering he has a game tomorrow. But maybe he’s one of those guys who can sleep anywhere.
“Thank you,” I murmur, racking my brain for a way to verbally express the extent of my gratitude.
“You’re welcome.”
It’s a straightforward exchange. The kind of pleasantries typically offered up without thinking. But the simplicity of the words adds to the authenticity of the moment and the tether between us.
He’s still holding my face, caressing my lower lip as he homes in on my mouth. I let my lip slide out from between my teeth, and something hot and fiery flares behind his eyes with the motion. Gulping, I clear my throat, then shift back on my heels slightly.
Just enough to break the spell we’re both under.
And with that, Decker blinks back to the moment, too. He cracks his neck, then nods to himself once.
“Pick which side you want. I’ll see if there are extra pillows in the closet.”
Oh.
Shit.