Chapter 9
Harper
The bed is enormous. But it’s still one bed.
Ethan pauses in the doorway, towel slung around his neck, dark hair damp, a single curl falling over his forehead. His flannel hangs loose over a fitted charcoal T-shirt that does absolutely nothing to calm my pulse. He looks like he walked straight out of a “Rugged Men of the Rockies” calendar.
“Shower’s nice and hot,” he says, in his signature deep voice.
“Thank you.” I stand too fast, wobbling. Smooth, Harper. I gather my pajama set consisting of soft leggings and a long-sleeve sleep shirt Ruby called “cozy but cute” — and head past him into the bathroom. When I close the door, I grip the counter, staring at my reflection.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself. “You’re fine. This is fine. It’s just one night in a big fancy bed with a man who could bench-press a Christmas tree.”
My reflection does not reassure me. I brush my teeth. Wash my face and change into the pajamas. I try not to think about Ethan on the other side of the door. When I exit, he’s standing by the fireplace, one hand braced on the mantle, staring into the flames. He turns and stops.
His eyes sweep over me once in a slow, controlled, devastating way. Heat flares up my neck.
“You good?” he asks.
“I think so.” I gesture vaguely to the bed. “Should we … uh … figure out how to … sleep?”
He nods. “Right. Ground rules.”
Ground rules. Yes, that’s good and logical. Except he sits on one side of the bed, and when the mattress dips under his weight, something warm and alarming twists low in my stomach.
He clears his throat. “You take the pillows. I’ll stay on my side. No crossing the middle.”
“What counts as crossing?”
He looks at me like I just asked for a map of the universe.
“Touching,” he says roughly. “Or … leaning. Or … drifting.”
“Drifting?”
“You know. In your sleep.”
I almost smile. “Do you drift?”
His ears tint a very faint pink. “I have no evidence of that.”
“So you do.”
“Harper.”
I bite back a laugh. He shifts like he’s uncomfortable. Which he probably is. He doesn’t fit here — not the lace throw pillows, not the sparkling champagne bottle, not the rose petals scattered across the duvet. He looks like a wolf trapped inside a glittery snow globe.
“I can sleep on the couch,” he offers suddenly.
“No,” I say before my brain catches up. “It’s only the size of a love seat. No, really. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
“I’m uncomfortable anywhere that isn’t my cabin,” he says honestly.
“Then we’ll just …” I gesture between us “… stay on our sides.”
Ethan nods. We climb into the bed like two people trying to defuse a bomb. He lies stiffly on his back, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling.
I turn off the bedside lamp, plunging us into shadows lit only by the fire’s glow. Minutes pass in silence. Then, he sighs low and annoyed.
“These pillows are ridiculous. They’re like bags of marshmallows.”
I laugh quietly into the blankets. “I like them.”
“Of course you do.”
More silence for a minute or two followed by, “Harper?”
“Yes?”
“Did you mean what you said earlier?”
I swallow. “About what?”
“That you don’t want to make this difficult.”
I roll onto my side — my side — and stare at the faint outline of him in the firelight.
“I meant it,” I whisper. “I didn’t intend for any of this to happen. But … I want to do my part.”
“It’s not you that’s the problem.”
“Then what is?”
He hesitates. Pain flickers through his voice. “Being out of my space. Out of my routine. In …” He gestures at the room. “… this.”
I understand more than he knows.
“I feel out of place too.”
He turns his head toward me.
Our eyes meet in the half-dark. It feels like a warm knowing. But it also feels deeply dangerous in this one bed together.
He finally looks back at the ceiling and says low and rough, “Sleep, Harper.”
My heart thuds once — hard.
“Goodnight, Ethan.”
I close my eyes. Five minutes later, his arm shifts just slightly like he drifted. He definitely drifts. And … I’m not sure I mind.