Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Loren
“You are so not sleeping in that chair tonight.”
I come back from washing my face to find Bridger crammed between two armchairs pushed together. I felt bad enough that we ever spent any nights sharing a couch. There’s no way I’m letting him pretzel his body up like this for the next eight hours.
He lifts his head from the single pillow he borrowed from the generous assortment on the bed and says, “I’m fine.”
He’s got his phone plugged into an outlet in the corner, a half-empty water bottle on the floor, and one knitted throw that barely covers him from the waist down. He must’ve grabbed that from the foot of the bed. It’s the size of a table runner.
Meanwhile, I’ve got the Taj Mahal of sleep setups, including plush bedding, a half-dozen pillows, and a nightstand that sports a gorgeous reading lamp and full-service docking station.
“That’s not fine,” I argue, pulling the blanket off him. He’s changed into a T-shirt and form-fitting joggers, which only remind me exactly how muscular he is. “You’re way too … bulky.”
He props himself up. “Bulky?”
“I mean, just look at you.” I sweep a hand along his hunched frame, indicating his curled legs and chest. The cords in his forearms flex.
Have mercy.
“You want me to take the floor?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” I frown. “The bed is massive enough for us to share. I trust you to be a gentleman.”
His gaze drops to my bare legs. “I’m glad one of us does.”
Something warm smolders in my abdomen, and I press a hand there. “We’re adults,” I say, more to myself than him. “We can behave ourselves. But I’ll build a pillow divider anyway, just so I don’t accidentally crawl onto you while I’m sleeping.”
His mouth goes lopsided. “You’re afraid you might sleep crawl?”
“It’s not unprecedented.” I wrinkle my nose. “Like that night in the study?”
“Good point.” He unfolds his body from the chair, eyes staying on mine as he comes to his full height above me.
My throat goes dry. “I drooled on you.”
“I remember.”
I spend the next few minutes crafting a moat down the center of the mattress.
Except I’m not sure you can call it a moat if there’s no water.
Still, there’s a decent amount of down feathers to keep us apart.
Afterward, I slide into my side of the bed, burrowing under the sheets.
Then I pat the pillow wall. “There. See? Perfect.”
Bridger takes in the length of my body, enshrouded by bedding, and he stretches out on the far edge of his side. Above the comforter.
I lift a brow. “No covers for you?”
He holds my gaze for a moment, his gray eyes hooded. “Too hot.”
My heartbeat pulses in my throat.
I’ll say.
I slink deeper under the top sheet, shimmying until I find my usual position. Next to me, Bridger heaves his body around, adjusting. And adjusting. And adjusting.
How can this man be uncomfortable in the most comfortable bed ever?
I peer at him sideways, fully horizontal, my cheek on the pillow. “Hey.”
He turns to face me, lips parted, hair rumpled already. “Hey.”
“You all right?”
His exhale is soft in the quiet. “Sure.”
“Can I turn the lights out now?”
His pupils dilate. “Anytime.”
“Okay, then.” Using the remote, I click off all the lamps and turn up the overhead fan. Bridger’s too hot, after all. It’s the very least I could do for him.
“Good night, husband,” I whisper into the dark.
“Good night, wife.”
Reader? I sleep crawled.
But I’ll go ahead and assume nobody needs a long, drawn-out description of the moment I woke up in Bridger’s arms. Again. I will say, at least this time, I wasn’t drooling. And we weren’t on a couch. In fact, we took up a whole lot of space in that big king-sized bed.
Bridger had one arm flung over his head and the other encircling my body like he never wanted to let go.
But we already decided on no descriptions, right?
Anyway. Back to breakfast.
I’m at the kitchen table, willing myself to stop blushing. My mother-in-law is beside me, draped in silk robes and silently sipping her coffee. To avoid arousing suspicion, I need my cheeks to get a grip. Immediately.
Because there’s nothing weird or blush-worthy about sleeping in your husband’s arms, right?
I should not be this flustered. So I’ve been sticking to no eye contact, with her or with Bridger.
Speaking of which, he’s at the stove scrambling eggs and sautéing diced vegetables in his pajamas, looking more handsome than any man has the right to.
“Can I top up your coffee, Margaret?” I blurt.
Super low-key.
She glances at her cup. Her smile is demure. “I still have plenty, thank you.”
“Lovely.” I smile back. Lovely? I literally never say lovely. “Well, when you’re ready,” I chirp, “say the word, and I’ll make us a fresh pot.”
“There’s half a pot left in the carafe,” Bridger announces over his shoulder.
“Ah. Great!” I grit my teeth. “Thank you for telling me, honey.”
We’re supposed to be on the same team. Partners in crime. The crime being marital deception. But he’s not helping my pursuit to be smooth. At all.
Soon, though, he comes to the table with a heaping platter of eggs and fresh vegetables, and the scent is so delectable, I immediately forgive him for spoiling my super-cool repartee with his mom.
“None for me, dear,” Margaret says when he offers her eggs.
He frowns. “You’re not going to eat?”
“I’ll have some dry toast later.”
Gross.
“I’ll have all of that now, please.” I bat my lashes at him, then aim a greedy grin at the display of fluffy eggs and veggies. “Thank you for cooking, sweetheart.”
“Of course, kitten.” He scrapes a generous portion onto my plate. “For my beautiful bride.”
He sneaks me a smile.
Yep. We’re employing our lay-it-on-thick strategy.
But now that we’re on the same page, I waste no time diving into breakfast. “Oh, wow. This is incredible,” I groan, because it’s true. “You’re incredible, honey.”
He drops into a chair and serves himself next. “You’re not so bad yourself.” When he winks at me, I press out a giggle that may or may not have sounded fake. So I cast a covert peek at Margaret, politely sipping her coffee.
Be careful, Loren.
“I do hate to interrupt your little mutual admiration society,” she says, “but what are our plans for the day?”
Our plans? As in all of us hanging out together?
I scoop up more eggs to stick in my mouth and try not to choke.
“Great question,” Bridger says, dousing his food with hot sauce. “Loren and I usually start the day with a good old-fashioned staring contest, don’t we, kitten?”
I look up from my plate, almost gagging.
Staring contest? What on planet Earth is he talking about? I get that he’s teasing his mom, probably trying to make her feel awkward enough to leave, but does he have to drag me into his little game?
This family’s going to kill me.
“I'm eating,” I mumble with my mouth full of cubed peppers.
He shrugs. “Just use your eyes.”
“Okay, sure.” I swallow and set down my fork. “If you’re ready to lose again, bring it on, sweetheart.”
“Is it honey? Or sweetheart?" Margaret asks drily. “You keep switching back and forth.”
“Quiet, please,” Bridger says. “My wife and I need to concentrate.”
My gaze lifts to his, and we lock in, the contest beginning.
For more than a minute, his focus stays trained on me, unwavering as he examines my face.
Like he’s taking inventory. Each tiny detail catalogued, every inch of my skin memorized.
Warmth floods my neck, leaking downward, traveling to my core.
And yet, he keeps silently drinking me in.
Total control. Pure, unflinching connection.
My insides are officially fluttering.
After another minute, I finally clock some movement below his chin with my peripheral vision.
“I win!” I chirp.
His eyes continue to bore into mine. “Nope.”
“Except I do.”
“Objection,” he says. “I didn’t blink.”
“But your Adam’s apple dipped.”
His eyes crinkle. “That’s not a thing.”
“Yes, it is, Bridger Adams,” I insist. “Wait, hey. Your Bridger Adam’s apple dipped.”
“My what?”
“Your Bridger Adam’s apple.”
He finally breaks eye contact, shaking his head and chuckling. “Now that is definitely not a thing.”
“Well, it should be.” I grin, delighted with myself.
“Either way, staring contests are about blinking. Not movement.”
“But we always play that you're not allowed to move. At all.” I edge a glance at Margaret, then shift back to Bridger. “Isn’t that right, honey?”
“Fine.” He lifts his palms in surrender, and a slow smile sneaks across his face. “Loren gets all the awards and all the gold stars and all the trophies forever.”
“That’s right.” I take a little half-bow in my seat, triumphant.
“Ahem.” Margaret clears her throat, then folds her hands on the table. Her posture is impeccable. “So, Loren. What do we do after the staring contest?”
My lip twitches. I think my mother-in-law is getting tired of us already. All this nuptial bliss might get her to fly home soon rather than later. “Bridger and I usually take a good, long walk,” I tell her. “Care to join us?”
Margaret grimaces. “I don’t exercise.”
“What a shame.” I wince, like this is the worst news ever.
“Especially because my dad is expecting me over at Havenwood after. And then I have a couple of students to tutor this afternoon. But I’ll bet Bridger has time to take you downtown today.
” I send him a smile as an apology. “Do you, sweetheart?”
He works his jaw back and forth. “Sure.”
Please understand, I’m not proud of throwing my husband under the bus, but she’s his mother, not mine. And she’ll probably hate our sweet little city. So if we’re trying to make her leave of her own accord, a visit to the town square might be the fastest way to accomplish our mission.
“You two could do a bit of shopping,” I suggest. “And try out a few cafes. Then drive out to visit Harvest Farms.”
Margaret lifts a hand to her throat. “Did you say … farm?”