Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Winnie
Later, while James is showering, I make a mental survival guide.
It would be perfect for one of Lindy’s Buzzfeed articles.
Mine would be called: How to Share a Room with James Graham.
Or, for better mass appeal: How to Share a Room with a Man You’re Attracted to But Trying Not to Fall Head Over Heels For.
Schedule bathroom times so as not to have awkward run-ins while in a towel (so far, check)
Take clothes into the bathroom with you when showering so you don’t need to leave the bathroom in a towel (check, only because James was kind enough to push my bag into the bathroom while swearing his eyes were closed)
You must wear full coverage pajamas and for the record, boxers do not count as pajama bottoms (so far, check)
Do not use each other’s bodywash because it’s very, very distracting (total fail here as I can smell James on my skin, and he’s right—it’s torture)
Do not, in any circumstances upon penalty of death, share a bed (pullout couch at the ready, so, CHECK!)
If there is only one bed, someone should sleep on the couch (check)
If there is no couch, someone should sleep on the floor (n/a)
Keep air-conditioning at a reasonable level to avoid visible nipplage (check, but is nipplage a word?)
The last one has me grinning in a way that apparently James finds disturbing, because he gives me a look as he exits the bathroom. I’m glad to see he’s following the rules (even if he doesn’t know there ARE rules) and is fully dressed.
Though, as I try not to stare at his fitted T-shirt and sweatpants, I think I need to add another rule.
No sweatpants! (because MUSCULAR THIGHS IN SWEATPANTS ARE TOO MUCH)
“What?” he asks, toweling off his damp hair. This only emphasizes his massive biceps.
“Nothing.” I shift on the pullout couch, trying to avoid the weird bar that seems to come standard with every sleeper sofa ever made.
“Hey—I told you I’d sleep on the couch.” His frown deepens, and it makes me want to laugh.
“And I made the executive decision while you were in the shower that you’re too big for the couch. Sorry—you snooze, you lose, boss.”
James heads back to the bathroom with his towel. When he walks away, I do my very, VERY best not to track the way his butt stretches the fabric of his sweatpants.
Seriously—sweatpants shouldn’t make a man look hot.
They’re a 1980s relic, bringing to mind out-of-fashion dads and the whole giving-up-on-life vibe.
On James, though, they only accentuate his narrow hips and his thighs—which look powerful enough to crush cars.
I never thought of myself as a thigh woman, but here we are.
GIVE ME ALL THE THIGHS! Or, at least, two very specific thighs attached to one very specific man.
James stretches out on the bed, which is across and a little to the side of my couch bed.
I can feel him watching me as I do my best not to meet his gaze.
My emotional state is much improved—a foot rub, hot bath, and hotter man taking care of me will do that.
But these things also make my emotional state with regards to James more complicated.
And I don’t need complicated .
I tick off the reasons why this is a terrible idea in my mind. First, he’s still my boss. That’s reason enough. But since that doesn’t seem to be enough to stop all my feels, I keep going.
Second, maybe he didn’t regret the kiss, but he also said he didn’t know what to do about it. And he hasn’t tried kissing me again. Which, to be clear, he could . And despite points one and two, I would not stop him.
I’m going to toss out the third point, which is that I just got out of a relationship and shouldn’t be thinking about another so soon.
Seeing Dale with Celia—at least before I realized the whole situation—made me realize just how little of my heart he ever held.
Even so, I shouldn’t jump into anything.
Even if James’s thighs in sweatpants make me consider otherwise.
“What are you watching?” James asks.
Honestly, I’d forgotten I was watching anything. I was busy making lists in my head and trying not to drool over James’s legs. I glance at my phone.
“Just TikTok.” His lip curls, and I can’t help but laugh. “You’re such an old man. Hating TikTok. Wearing sweatpants.”
He glances down at his legs. “What’s wrong with my sweatpants?”
It takes me a moment to swallow, because my throat has closed up. “Nothing.” Absolutely nothing.
James makes a growl that sounds like disagreement, and I keep my eyes glued to my phone. But when he climbs out of bed, I can’t ignore him. He’s wearing a smoldery expression—another thing to expressly forbid on my survival guide—as he crosses the room to me.
He possesses all the languid, powerful grace of some kind of large jungle cat.
A large jungle cat in low-riding sweatpants that are going to be the death of me.
I stare up at him as he reaches me, unsure if I should run or stretch out my neck in submission.
Isn’t that what animals do to show loyalty or submission?
It would also give him easy access. You know—if he decides to kiss my neck.
In a move that surprises me so much I gasp, James stretches out on my couch bed with an easy grace. That is, until his butt hits the metal bar.
“Ouch! What is that ?” he grumbles, wiggling.
The mattress is thin, with little support.
James’s weight—and all the wiggling—sends me rolling almost into his lap.
I grab the arm of the couch and manage to right myself, sitting up cross-legged.
And if my knee is touching his thigh, it’s because there’s no room in this tiny couch bed, not because I’ll take any contact with his thighs I can get.
I DO find myself wishing the human kneecap possessed more nerve endings.
James is definitely breaking at least several of the survival guide rules. Okay, so maybe I haven’t told James any of the rules, but still. Shouldn’t he know he can’t just climb into my sofa bed with me? It simply isn’t done .
My thoughts are now apparently channeling some proper English Lady abiding by the rules of manners. All I need is a corset, an embroidered handkerchief, and a dance card tied to my wrist.
Annnnnnd now I’m picturing James as Mr. Darcy. Great .
“It feels like you’re on some kind of torture device,” he grumbles, still adjusting. His feet practically hang off the end of the mattress.
“That’s the bar for the fold-out thingy. Just part of the luxurious sofa bed experience.” His blank look has me reeling. “Wait—have you never slept on a pullout couch before?”
James simply stares, blinking and expressionless. What I hear him saying is, I’m too fancy for pull-out couches. And I’ve been too tall to fit on something like this since I was fourteen .
That’s what I imagine his expression means, anyway.
I cluck my tongue. “Oh, you poor, privileged boy.”
“I thought you said I was an old man. Pick a lane.” He squirms some more, and his brows knit together. “This is impossible. I told you I’d let you have the bed,” he growls.
I don’t know if it’s the growl or all the talk of beds, but my cheeks feel too warm. I cannot talk about beds with James Graham. Especially not while IN a bed with him. Even a sofa bed. Though the bar is acting as a chaperone, keeping things from being TOO comfortable. My cheeks grow even hotter.
“No. It’s fine. But why are you over here?”
“Because you accused me of being an old man. I’m here to watch TikToks.” He glances at my phone’s screen and frowns. “What is that ?”
I laugh. “A contouring tutorial.”
“Is that, like, a makeup thing?”
Oh, sweet, innocent James . He may have a sister but Harper is a fresh-faced beauty. I’d wager she wears little more than lip gloss and maybe mascara here and there. I love makeup, and I don’t even do contouring. I happen to find it fascinating (and also relaxing) to watch the videos.
“Just wait.” I angle my body and the phone toward him, still trying to maintain distance. Not an easy feat when James is so big he could take up this whole bed himself. I try not to giggle at his sour expression.
“Why is she putting those dark lines on her face?”
“Sh! Just watch.”
He grumbles but does as I ask. I can practically see his head exploding as the time-lapse tutorial shows a woman going from a paint-by-numbers face to looking flawless and cover-model ready.
James watches the video, and I watch James, which is much more entertaining.
He looks shocked, horrified, and unreasonably angry.
“No,” he says at the end, shaking his head vehemently, which jostles me toward him. “No.”
I manage to keep myself from falling into his lap, but just barely. “Okay, so no makeuptok. We could do beertok?”
“Beertok?”
A crease forms between his brows, and without thinking about it, I smooth it away with my finger. James goes still at the touch, and when I glance at his eyes, they’re dark, and on my lips. I drop my hand to my lap and clear my throat, feeling my heart thudding like a battering ram in my chest.
“So, um, on Tiktok, you can follow certain hashtags or communities around topics. Makeuptok is all about makeup. Booktok is about books. I haven’t really looked, but beertok is probably a thing.”
“No more beer.”
A thought comes to mind, and I bite back a smile, then type something into the search, navigating until I find a video I’ve watched before.
“Alligators?” James asks.
“Just watch.”
James’s frown returns, but this time I don’t dare reach up to smooth away the crease between his brows. “What’s it doing?”
I didn’t quite think through the awkwardness of explaining this to him.
“It’s, um, something the males—bulls—do during mating season.
They bellow to attract females, and the sound frequency is so low it vibrates the water above their backs.
This reminds me of you. Except you’re growling to scare people off. ”