Chapter 11
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
NATALIE
It’s official. I severely regret pulling a penny from the Trevi Fountain when I was seven so I could make a wish.
It’s obvious that my wish to find true love is cursed. It definitely can’t be just my terrible life decisions. That fountain has to be monumentally spiteful, too.
So it is, through no fault of my own, I find myself sharing a room with Cole Sinclair, a man that two days ago fully ignited the rage quadrant of my brain.
A room that my mother purchased for fifty dollars.
Typically, I’d follow that with an allegedly because my mother has the tendency to undersell her purchases to my father—mostly when it comes to books.
“It was buy two, get one,” is girl code for she wanted to buy two books and also get another one.
But between the sticky carpet, the threadbare cover on the full-sized single bed in the room, and the rattle in the heater, I’d say fifty dollars may have been an overpayment for this room.
Shivering and racked with fountain-etiquette regret, I stand over the one bed in this questionable motel room, dressed in the silk camisole and shorts set that I obviously forgot to replace before we left because my entire life is a comedy of errors.
My mismatched socks—something I never wear to bed—are a desperate attempt to shield my feet from green flooring that can best be classified as a “biohazard” and not so much a carpet.
I wouldn’t wish sleeping on this ground to my worst enemy. Which means even two days ago, I couldn’t in good conscience have asked Cole to move to the floor. And now?
Woof.
I’m anxious, yes, to share a bed with a man who slid me off his lap last night.
I’m terrified, too, I’ll break and ask him if he was actually the Sinclair brother who saved me, and if so, why he’s been lying to me for years.
Has he been lying?
Or has he just never corrected me?
I hate nuance and the unknown. I have too active an imagination for that.
It is the twenty-first century, so I could sleep on the floor and delay the inevitable for a little longer, but I don’t want to risk becoming a casualty in some horror movie where the ground draws life from unsuspecting victims. So awkward yet thrilling bed sharing it is. Sold.
Cole is currently changing in our bathroom, giving me free rein to over-analyze every thought spiraling in my head.
Like what does Cole usually wear to bed?
I fell asleep before him last night and he woke up before me and changed, so I have no clue.
Does he wear a shirt? Pants? Is he an “only his underwear” kind of guy?
What am I going to do if I have to sleep next to an almost naked Cole Sinclair?
Curl up in a ball and cry? Probably.
And oh, dear god, is that spot by the dresser ketchup or blood? I yelp and dive under the covers, completely ignoring whether I checked for anything lurking beneath them.
Which is totally fine. I am chill.
Okay, but what if there’s a spider? Or a family of spiders?
Or like…a cult of spiders? Maybe the blood on the floor is from one of their ritual sacrifices. Maybe I’ll be their next victim.
With extreme urgency, I whip the covers off to inspect the sheets. Just as I do, the bathroom door swings open and Cole walks out, illuminated by the harsh overhead light.
I swallow. A snug black thermal clings to every ridge and muscle of his torso and flannel pants hang low on his hips. Mainly, he’s wearing clothes, and that’s super cool, and not disappointing at all, because it would be problematic if I was disappointed and I’m not problematic.
Facts.
Except I’m very much problematic, because I’m lying to my parents about dating Cole Sinclair when I didn’t even like him a few days ago, but somehow that’s better than telling the truth to my usually very supportive and loving parents.
Oh my god, so about those spiders.
Cole rakes a hand through his tousled dark brown hair and then, under a pair of very damning thin gold framed glasses, his eyes land on me.
Me, on my hands and knees, patting the sheets down like some deranged…sheet checker…my backside in the air. His eyes widen, and he clears his throat, his infamous smirk creeping across his face. “Whatcha doing?”
“Checking for spiders,” I reply, trying to sound casual, like this is totally a normal thing to do and not one of those moments where I’ve fallen victim to my giant, overactive imagination.
“Ah.” In two long strides, he’s at the bed. His hands move over the sheets in the areas I can’t reach. “Looks good to me. Why don’t you hurry up and get under the covers before you catch your death?”
“I’m not that cold,” I insist, though the goosebumps on my arms and the shiver racing down my spine beg to differ.
His eyes flicker downward, deliberately slow. “Your chest would suggest otherwise,” he says motioning for me to lie down.
Heat floods my cheeks, and I cross my arms defensively over my camisole, sinking back on the bed.
“Why—why are you looking there? Aren’t you supposed to be a gentleman or something?”
“Am I? Funny, I thought I was the son of Satan. My mistake.”
I reach for the covers and Cole adjusts them until I’m tucked in, cocooned in a blanket that should be terrifying but is somehow cozy. “Good?” he asks, and I nod, managing a quiet, “Thank you.”
“Wearing a silk pajama set in a room that’s maybe forty degrees? What were you thinking?” he says with a shake of his head, reaching over me and grabbing a pillow from his side of the bed. My breath stutters as his chest brushes mine.
“I take it back; you’re not the devil, you’re just a grumpy old man.”
“Thank you! I was wondering when you’d see the real me.”
A small smile tugs at my lips. He’s been doing that, making me smile, far too much.
“Natalie, Natalie. A smile and an almost compliment all in one day? Don’t tell me I’m wearing you down already. I had an entire week of weakening your defenses planned.”
“What were you planning on doing with your second week?”
“I’m keeping that to myself for now, but you’re going to have a blast.”
He walks over to the closet, pulls out a folded quilt, and lays it over the tiny loveseat.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Floor looks gross,” he says, grimacing as he touches the quilt. “Not that this looks much better. Shit.”
In five seconds I’m sure I’m going to regret the words about to depart from my mouth. But as they wait for their turn to take-off, they seem like the only solution. “We can share the bed, if you want. The sheets weren’t that bad.”
Cole exhales, still studying the blanket with his hands on his hips. “Are you sure ? I can brave this.” He pokes it and grimaces. “And hey, if I don’t make it, then you won’t have to push me into the ocean. Save you some effort.”
“That’s very noble of you, but I don’t think I can in good conscience let you make this sacrifice. Just don’t steal the covers. Some grumpy old dude said I was ill-equipped for the elements, and I think he was right because I’m still freezing.”
The bed dips behind me with his weight, his back hits my back, and the light flickers off.
In the darkness I steady my breaths, trying not to overthink—ha!—about how for the first time I’m sharing a bed with a man.
And somehow, it’s the man himself that feels even more significant.
Cuddling was not something Dillon enjoyed, and he hated PDA. By the end, he hated me too—considering, when I found out about all his cheating and threatened to end things unless he stopped, his reaction was to smirk and say, “Have fun being alone. No one else will deal with all your crazy.”
Maybe he was right. Cole met me shortly after and apparently wanted nothing to do me, either.
Suddenly, the poor excuse for a heater rattles before giving out with a final, nail-in-the-coffin clunk, and a soft voice murmurs, “I could help keep you warm, if you want.”
Which, funny enough, is a very decidedly not leaving me alone thing to say.
Maybe I’m wearing him down? I don’t know. But I am freezing, so…