Chapter 11 The One-Bed-Only #2
I take a slow breath, staring up at the dark ceiling as I press my hands against my sides, willing my body to behave. But my skin is too aware of the space between us, of the way I can hear his slow, steady breathing, which only seems to amplify my own.
I shift slightly, feigning comfort, but my heartbeat picks up, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to force myself into relaxation. Just sleep.
“Was this your parents’ bedroom?”
I flinch, twisting to look in his direction. “Uh, no. This has always been mine. My parents’ room is now the guest bedroom. Or will be—there are only boxes in there.” I turn on my back. “It’d be weird to sleep in their bedroom, wouldn’t it?”
“I don’t think so. I just keep picturing your dad giving me the stink eye.”
“For sleeping here?”
“For missing out on so much. And not being there for you when he and your mom passed.”
That’s ridiculous. It’s not like my dad ever entrusted him to me or anything. We’ve never been friends. “You know, Paige says I can’t hold a grudge.”
“Is that true?”
“It is. I get it from Dad.” I exhale. “So I highly doubt that he’d ever have been able to stay mad at you. Or anyone.”
“Hmm.” Though I can’t tell for sure, it sounds like he’s smiling. “Who was your first kiss with?”
I inhale sharply, then exhale. Is that what he meant when he said he missed out? “Uh, Jacob Gallagher.”
“Was it any good?”
“Not really. His mouth tasted like hot dog, and he lodged his tongue in my throat. It was kind of gross.”
He laughs, the cover moving with him.
“And you?”
“Lily Goodwin. She asked me if I’d ever kissed anyone, because she wanted me to show her how to, and I lied. It was great—for me, at least. She’d probably describe it similarly to how you just did.”
Lily Goodwin? I groan. “Damn it. I get my haircuts at her salon.”
“And?” He snickers. “You can’t possibly be jealous, can you?”
“No,” I say defensively. But I’ll definitely think about it every time I see her now.
“Yikes. I think I just cost her a client.”
“You’re seriously underestimating the loyalty of a woman to her hairdresser.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then, “What about prom?”
“Prom.” He’d left just a few months before. “My parents had just died, so… I didn’t go.”
“Birthdays? Any memorable ones?”
“All of them, I guess. My mom used to make pancakes with ridiculous toppings—said it made the day ‘taste adventurous.’ After breakfast, a treasure hunt around the house. Pizza for dinner. It was a whole thing.”
“Is that why you don’t enjoy celebrating now?”
The familiar prickle hits the backs of my eyes. “It’s hard to want a birthday when the people who made it magical aren’t around anymore.” I shove the thought away and breathe out. “Your turn. How was graduation?”
“Auditorium was packed, the choir sang off-key, and I couldn’t keep that cap on for the life of me.”
“I bet your dad was proud.”
“I guess.” He folds an arm behind his head. “He never said.”
Never? Teachers had bets on whether he’d even graduate. After everything, how could his dad have said nothing? “Well, I was. I remember thinking you’d do incredible things.”
He shifts a little closer, just enough for his pillow to brush mine. I face him, hands resting between us. His fingers graze mine, tracing slow circles and making my skin tingle.
He says softly, “The only incredible thing I want to do is be good.”
“Good?”
He pauses. “We’re just a blip in history, right? Here, then gone. I’d be happy if my life was unremarkable, except for the good I left behind.”
“That’s all you want?”
“Yep.” His smile softens. “Well, that and you.”
A flutter spins in my stomach. “I…” I steady myself. “I want a lot from life.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“I want kids. To travel. Maybe a summer house in the woods. And a home library—with a ladder that rolls.”
“Like in Beauty and the Beast?”
“Yes.” I focus on the blanket. “A whole wall of books and a ladder to swing from.”
“Can I be the Beast?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Only if you provide the library. And the castle.”
He chuckles, fingers slipping fully between mine. “Guess I’d better get to work.”
Sherlock stirs at our feet. “Rooo,” he protests, casting us a withering look from his blanket nest.
“Shit. Did your cat just tell us to shut up?”
“Afraid so.” I press a finger to my lips, stifling a laugh.
Rafael looks solemnly at him. “Sorry, Sherlock. We’ll keep it down.”
“Rooo…” The cat sighs and tucks his head back under the blanket.
Rafael gives my hand a small squeeze, and the thrill curls deeper. After a pause, he asks, “First concert?”
I look up at the ceiling, smiling as the memory rushes in. “Okay,” I say, launching into the story.
I haven’t closed an eye all night, which is both not Rafael’s fault and one hundred percent because of him.
How could I sleep when there was this entire book he annotated for me?
So when Sherlock admonished us for the second time and we decided to go to sleep, I waited for his breathing to become deep and even, then grabbed the book and read the whole thing.
I set The Love Alibi on my chest, looking over at him.
Turns out, the key to my heart is book annotations, because the son of a bitch has won me over. I mean, how could he not have?
I open the book to a random page and read: “See how he can’t help but notice all the minor details about her, even the ones she doesn’t think matter? I keep cataloging all the little things you do—like the way your eyes light up when you read a book you enjoy. It’s my favorite thing to watch.”
Biting my lip, I turn the page. I almost feel the need to annotate his annotations. Write little thoughts about his little thoughts, because they’re a window into his soul. He wrote: “You do this, too. You fidget with your sleeves. Is it because I make you nervous, Freckles?”
Always so flirty.
“Hold the fuck up. Is this a thing? If men who cook are sexy, how about men who always pay for takeout?”
I bite my lip and flip again: “Nah. Unless the plot twist here is that he’s from another planet, there’s no way his junk can be compared to a soda can.”
And then the bit about the main character seeing his love interest and feeling this sense of peace he’s never experienced before. This longing and deep sense of satisfaction at the same time. He highlighted the whole thing and wrote, “Couldn’t have said it better.”
I could read every single annotation a million times over.
Sherlock, at my feet, begins stirring. I check the time on my phone, then meet his gaze. “Don’t,” I whisper, but he steps forward regardless. “Sherlock, do not.”
“Rooo.”
Fuck! I set the book on the floor as he steps even closer, knowing that no matter how much of a deep sleeper Rafael is, Sherlock will wake him up.
“Rooo!”
Rafael moves, still half asleep, and I close my eyes, settling against the pillow.
“Roooooo!”
I feel Rafael move again, and this time, he clears his throat. “Shh. Just five more minutes.”
“Rooo.”
“Come on, Sherlock. Let her sleep.”
“Rooo!”
“Shh. Goddamn it. Where’s your food?”
I smile into the pillow, then turn to the side, eyes half closed as if he just woke me up, too. “I can go,” I murmur.
“No, no. Stay in bed.” His hand brushes my hair away from my face. “Come on, Sherlock.”
“Kitchen cabinet,” I call out as I feel the mattress dip beneath me. The familiar patter of Sherlock’s paws on the wooden floor follows, and then Rafael’s muffled voice from the kitchen. I can’t catch the words, but the tone sounds like they’re having a full conversation. It‘s so cute.
Damn cat. I almost got caught because of him.
Moments later, I hear footsteps returning. Rafael climbs back into bed, his body shifting the mattress as he settles in behind me. “Does he always get hungry at five a.m.?”
“Afraid so.”
“Hmm.” He’s so close to me, I can feel his breath on the back of my neck. “Did you like the book?”
My eyes bulge out. “Wh-what?”
His deep chuckle vibrates against my ear. “The sleepy voice was convincing. Unnecessary, but a great job.”
I scrunch my nose, cringing. What the hell did I do that for? It’s not like he cares that I’ve been awake all night reading. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He laughs again, pulling me back against him.
His body is warm on mine, the weight of his arm draped over my waist and his chest pressing lightly into my back, rising and falling with each breath.
His legs tangle with mine, and the scratch of his stubble grazes the back of my head as he shifts slightly. “Is this okay?”
“Hmm?”
“I know I said no cuddling, but… I think we can both agree I’m not a great rule follower.”
“It’s fine,” I whisper. More than fine, actually. It feels like every look my way, every word he says, is a cuddle, and this is just the natural evolution of that. It feels incredibly right.
“Get some sleep now.”
I scoot back a little, testing the feeling of his body against mine, and my breath catches as I notice the unmistakable hardness pressing against my ass.
Holy shit. He’s hard. And thick—extraordinarily so.
A tingling warmth spreads through me, and I can’t help but mentally measure it against a soda can. Shooing the thought away, I try to stay still, not wanting to draw attention to it, but almost involuntarily, I shift my hips slightly.
His sharp intake of breath tells me he’s noticed. His fingers flex against my stomach, but he says nothing. There’s no way I’m falling asleep after this, though, and I lie still, slowly realizing that we’re entangled, squeezed together intimately. And now his erection is pressed against me.
I shift my hips again, more deliberately this time.
A low groan escapes his throat, barely audible but enough to make goose bumps take over my body. “What are you doing?”
I swallow hard, my heart racing. “Nothing. Just getting comfortable.” But I’m not. I’m testing the waters, seeing how far I can push this before one of us breaks.
His hand slides lower, fingers dipping just beneath the waistband of my shorts. “Still okay?” His voice vibrates against my neck, his lips brushing my skin.
I nod, unable to form words as his fingertips trace lazy circles on my hip. My eyes flutter closed, and I arch back against him again, craving more contact.
“Scarlett,” he huffs. “You’re making it very difficult to be a gentleman right now.”
I turn my head slightly, glimpsing his face in the dim morning light. His eyes are dark, intense, fixed on me. “Maybe I don’t want you to be a gentleman.”
For a moment, we’re both perfectly still, suspended in the tension. Then, with agonizing slowness, his hand slides farther down, fingertips tracing lightly over the delicate skin of my inner thigh.
“Rooo!”
We both flinch as Sherlock lands between our legs, like an unwelcome referee in our private game.
“Shit, hey, I just fed you!” Rafael complains as Sherlock swats his foot, his little tail flicking in indignation.
“Sherlock, stop,” I scold, but it comes out breathy as laughter bubbles up. I scramble to my knees and shoo him away, then turn back to Rafael, who’s cowering on his side of the bed, catching his breath.
“He wasn’t this feisty when I served him breakfast.”
I force myself to stop giggling. “He just wants a cookie.”
“A cookie?”
“Dessert,” I explain. “Very much like his owner, he believes every meal should end with dessert.”
He watches the cat warily as he finally sets his feet on the floor. “All right, then. Let’s go get you dessert, Sherlock.”