Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
Brendan
The party has thinned out by the time Scarlett finally slips off her heels and heads for the stairs. She stifles a yawn with the back of her hand, shoes dangling from her fingers, like she’s had enough socializing for one day.
“You were wonderful tonight.” I pause at the bottom of the staircase. “Everyone adores you, just like I knew they would.”
She lets out a tired laugh. “Well, impressing your family is exhausting. I’m going upstairs to take a bath.”
Even the mention of Scarlett in a bath is problematic, so I redirect my attention to Grandma Rosa’s portrait on the wall. Nothing like your grandmother staring at you to remind you to get your brain out of the gutter.
Her brows knit. “You okay? You’ve got this glazed look on your face.”
“Fine.” I clear my throat. “Just thinking about my grandmother and…bachelor party plans.” I hook my thumb toward Tony, who is very conveniently still in the living room.
Her frown grows deeper. “Okay, I’m going to pretend that made sense.” She turns toward the stairs. “See you at breakfast, Bren.”
I watch her disappear up the staircase, curls bouncing with every step, and remind myself that we survived the party. No one suspected a thing, which means we nailed our first test. I should feel good about that, right?
Yeah…nope.
I just feel empty and I don’t like the reason why.
We made an agreement to be friends—no feelings involved—and I lasted maybe ten minutes on the no-feelings part.
It doesn’t matter what happened before. What matters is surviving the next six days without doing something stupid.
The truth is, I’m finally diagnosing this sickness: I’ve got Scarlett fever in the worst way. As cheesy as that sounds, distance from her now is the only way to get through the week.
When I finally head upstairs to my suite, I drop into the nearest chair, loosening the buttons on my dress shirt before tossing it aside.
And that’s when I hear it. The sound of a faucet turning on.
At first, I think it’s coming from the suite next door, but the echo of water is unmistakable. It sounds like it’s coming from inside my bathroom.
That can’t be right.
I stride toward the bathroom as the door flies open, startling me. Scarlett steps out wearing a short, gray-purple robe, her legs very much on display. Her eyes widen before she lets out an ear-splitting shriek.
I jerk backward, nearly tripping over an ottoman before catching myself.
“What are you doing in my room?” she demands, clutching the collar of her robe like I’m some kind of intruder.
“Your room?” I stare at her, completely bewildered. “This is my room. And you’re taking a bath in my tub.”
She shakes her head. “No. Your mother and aunt gave me this room because it’s their favorite. They gave me the key personally.”
“How is that possible,” I grab the key off the side table, “when my grandmother gave me the key?”
We just stare at each other as the realization settles in.
Either there was a major communication error or…
I drop my voice. “Do you think they planned—”
“No!” she gasps. “They wouldn’t set us up like that…would they?” Doubt clouds her expression.
“This is my family we’re talking about,” I clap back. “Of course they would.”
Scarlett looks appalled. “Why would they think we need—” She stops, horror dawning on her face. “Oh my gosh. Do they think they’re helping us?”
“Most likely, yes.” I pace the room, making a point not to look at her in that robe. “My mother probably thinks she’s speeding up the romance. Remember that conversation about couples waiting too long to get married?”
Her eyes widen. “What do we do now?”
I drag a hand down my face. “I can’t go downstairs and say there’s been a mistake.”
“Why not?”
“Because there isn’t a mistake.” I gesture between us. “They think we’re dating. If I complain, they’re going to ask why I don’t want to share a room with my own girlfriend.”
Scarlett goes still.
“And once my mother starts asking questions, she won’t stop,” I conclude.
Scarlett groans softly. “So either we share the room…or we tell them the truth.”
“Exactly.” I pace to the window, trying to think of another option and come up empty. “Every guest room is full—half the family flew in. Carmen double-checked.”
“What about the couches downstairs?”
“In the main living areas, where the staff start working at five a.m.?” I shake my head, knowing that would be equally disastrous. “My family will demand to know why I’m sleeping on the couch.”
“So what you’re saying is…there is no plan B?” She looks cornered. And the worst part is, she has every right to be. Because nowhere in our carefully negotiated agreement did I mention we might be sleeping in the same room.
“I’m afraid so,” I sigh.
Scarlett sinks onto the edge of the bed, dropping her head in her hands. “Then we’re trapped.”
We both know what this means—we’ll have to share this space until the wedding is over.
“Look,” I say, breaking the silence. “We’re adults. We can handle this maturely.” I gesture toward the sitting area. “I’ll take that couch. You take the bed. We can be roommates for a week.”
“The couch?” She follows my gaze to the boxy, modern sofa that’s clearly designed for looks and not comfort. “Brendan, you’re six foot three. You can’t sleep there for a week.”
I lift a shoulder. “I’ve slept in worse places in the military.”
Her lips press together. “This is your family’s home, your sister’s wedding. I’m not letting you sleep there, period. I can take the couch.”
“That’s not happening,” I say, glaring at her in a standoff that might be amusing if the stakes weren’t so high.
That’s when I realize something about the very couch we’re arguing over. “Wait a minute,” I say, walking over to examine the cushions. I bend just enough to rip off the cushions and toss them to the side.
“What are you doing?” Scarlett asks, staring at me in bewilderment.
Just as I expected, there’s a bed tucked inside the couch. “Problem solved. I’ll just sleep on the pullout. No one will even know.”
She stares at it. It’s only a few feet from her bed, but we’ll each have our own space. No accidental touching. No chance of anything happening. Judging by the look on Scarlett’s face, she’s already mentally constructing how to keep her distance with pillows and blankets.
“But what about everything else?” Questions swirl in her eyes. “Like sharing a bathroom? Or walking around in my pajamas?”
“We’ll come up with some ground rules so we can make things less awkward. It’ll be no different than living with Eli.”
She gives me a pointed look. “Brendan, you’re not my brother.”
My gaze travels over her robe. “Believe me, I’m well aware of that fact right now,” I mutter under my breath.
She has no clue how tough sharing a room with her will be on me. Hiding my feelings is one thing. Hiding them from three feet away is another thing entirely.
She heads back toward the bathroom, then pauses at the door. “We’re going to need those ground rules.” Her eyes narrow. “Like, immediately.”
Then she shuts herself into the bathroom, while I slump onto the couch. What have I gotten myself into?
I hear the water turn off in the bathtub. I stare at the ceiling.
She’s just my friend. Eli’s little sister. Not my girlfriend.
Yeah, none of that actually distracts me.
I turn to my suitcase next and dig through my clothes, trying to find something to wear to bed. That’s when I realize I didn’t pack anything appropriate for sharing a room with Scarlett Rossi. Nothing even pajama-adjacent.
Who packs sleepwear when they think they’re sleeping alone?
I pull out a pair of athletic shorts and change into those, then settle on the pullout bed with my iPad and turn on some game footage.
If I focus hard enough on hockey, maybe I’ll stop thinking about what’s happening on the other side of that bathroom door.
After thirty minutes, the bathroom door opens, and Scarlett emerges with a towel wrapped around her hair, wearing a gray, oversized t-shirt. Underneath, pink cotton shorts peek out, along with those same long legs that I’m really trying to ignore.
“You’re judging my pajamas, aren’t you?” she asks as she crosses the room.
I blink and focus on the tablet. “I’m not judging.”
She settles on the bed, rubbing lotion on her legs. “I didn’t know anyone would be seeing them.”
Her face is free of makeup, she’s wearing glasses, and I’ve never thought she looked more beautiful.
She pulls the towel off her head, her damp, wavy hair falling around her shoulders. “And don’t even try to pretend you weren’t.”
“Okay,” I admit, setting my iPad down. “I was looking at your shorts under that t-shirt.”
She scoffs. “It’s a big t-shirt,” she mutters, plaiting her hair into a loose braid. “Men’s large.”
“An old boyfriend’s?” I try to make it sound casual, but the question comes out too fast. I can’t even stomach the thought of her wearing a shirt that belonged to another man.
“No,” she says, slightly annoyed now. “Eli’s.”
“Oh,” I say, pretending I already assumed as much.
“And what is wrong with my shorts?” There’s an edge in her tone as she finishes her braid.
“Nothing,” I stammer, trying to come up with a better excuse than the real one—that her legs look amazing in them. “I was just noticing they had hearts on them.”
She looks at me in bewilderment. “So?”
“I just thought…they were cute.”
“Cute.” Her tone is flat as her gaze turns sharp. “Brendan Marco, are you making fun of me?”
“No, I promise!” I say, holding up my hands. “I just think it’s ironic, given the situation. Two people who don’t want to be in the same room…and you’re wearing heart pajamas.”
Her lips press into a line as she picks up her phone. Clearly, she doesn’t see the humor in it. Her gaze slides over me, like she’s just noticed that I’m not wearing a shirt. “Please tell me you’re wearing more than a bed sheet.”
“I’m wearing exactly what I always wear to sleep,” I say, knowing just how to rile her up.
“Brendan Marco, that is not an answer!” She throws a pillow my way.
I dodge it easily. “They’re shorts, Rossi. Do you want to inspect them yourself?” I throw off the sheet to model them, but she raises a hand before I get up.
“I don’t need proof, thanks.” Her eyes flick back to her screen as her thumb scrolls aimlessly.
“You better find some more sleep clothes to wear tomorrow. And maybe a t-shirt too. I like my room cold at night.” She tosses a smirk my way, and I get the feeling it’s a cover.
For some reason, she’s not comfortable with me wearing only shorts.
“That’s perfect, actually,” I say agreeably. “I love the cold. Unless you have a hard time—”
Her gaze darts down my chest, before it snaps back up, her jaw clenching slightly. “I…don’t have a hard time with the cold,” she says haltingly.
“Oh, good.” I smirk. “Because I hate to sweat at night. Can you turn the thermostat way down?”
She blinks, then throws off her sheet. “Well, as long as you don’t get chilled.” She pauses before reaching toward the thermostat on the wall, those shorts peeking out from under her t-shirt.
“I can handle it if you can,” I add smugly.
Her face wavers before she says weakly, “Of course I can handle it.”
I want to see if this is truly about the thermostat or whether this is about…something else, something that has to do with me.
She adjusts the temperature, then looks around the room. “Did you see if there are any extra blankets around?”
I narrow my eyes. “I thought you liked it cold.”
“I do!” she says brightly, then gestures at my sheet. “I just thought you might need one.”
“Oh no,” I say firmly. “I usually sleep without a shirt because I run hot. So thank you, but I will not be needing an extra blanket.”
She blinks several times, looking away, her cheeks flushing the same shade as the hearts on her shorts. “Oh, good.” Her voice is slightly strangled now. “I just wouldn’t want you to be…uncomfortable.”
“Don’t worry,” I say, fluffing my pillow. “I won’t be. Ready for lights out?”
She nods, looking like she wants to say more.
I flip off the lamp next to me, plunging us both into darkness, while the arctic air from the AC system kicks on. “Sweet dreams, Heart-Jammies.”
Another pillow hits me square in the face.
“How do you have such good aim in the dark?” I ask.
“Years of throwing things at Eli when he snores.”
“That explains it.” I settle onto my side, the bed squeaking loudly every time I move.
“Seriously, Marco? How many pillows do I have to throw at you to get you to stop that?”
“Who knows, maybe it will get my relatives off our case if they hear a lot of squeaking.”
“I shouldn’t have brought it up,” she moans, pulling the covers over her face. “I don’t know how I’m going to survive a week with you, Brendan Marco.”
I adjust the pillow under my head and stare at the ceiling.
You and me both.