Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
He’s got a messy mop of hair, thick glasses, a name tag that reads Ben, and he’s wearing a buttoned-up cardigan underneath his coat that puts him firmly in the adorable geek category.
Ah, to be at college again when being cash poor didn’t matter because you felt like you’d won the lottery thanks to passion alone, and getting an unpaid internship was something you wanted.
I remember those days well. I smile at him. Don’t give up on your dreams.
He blushes as he opens the door to our sleep room. It’s nice. Wow. I didn’t expect that.
Compared to the rest of the building full of stark white walls and silence, it’s cozy.
The walls are a soft cream so as not to glow in the dark while we sleep.
The bedspread is blue. There’s a chair in the corner of the room.
And we have a TV. It’s like a midrange Airbnb except the room also has a trolley filled with wires, monitors at the head of the bed, cameras in all corners, and an intercom for communicating.
There’s a control room right next to ours, but there’s no Criminal Minds-style one-way mirror with people in white coats on the other side watching us sleep under a dim light—at least I hope there isn’t.
Ben tells us it’s standard practice to record all sleep study sessions and the analysis happens over the following days. Then he instructs us to get ready for bed the same way we get ready at home.
That’s when it dawns on me. I need to get undressed. To change into my sleepwear. In front of Xander. With zero privacy. Because the damn bathroom is down the hall on the left.
Ben leaves, reminding us to be in our pajamas and ready. He’ll return after settling in the other patients.
How the fuck is this going to work?
I move around to my side of the bed and throw my overnight bag at my feet. The wine bottle clangs. Xander tilts his head, eyebrows furrowed, questioning the noise.
“They said to do whatever it is we do before going to sleep,” I say, shrugging.
I wonder if he’s going to judge me for the empty calories like any dude on the Bone It app would.
I mean, he clearly works out. The jury’s out on whether he owns a fedora.
“Don’t worry, you can’t catch calories by being in proximity. Your macros are safe with me.”
“Oh, great. I was worried,” he says, laughing. “About the macros.”
My eyes widen. I haven’t heard that sound in eleven years and warmth spreads from the pit of despair in my stomach throughout my entire body. It’s a nice laugh. Deep, genuine. A little husky.
Xander starts busying himself with his overnight bag. It’s one of those nice canvas ones with a leather handle. Mine is the free bag Em got with her gym membership. Before I can answer, he looks up, holding his sleepwear in his hands. I’m still searching for mine. We’re frozen.
We’re each waiting for the other to make the first move, like we’re in a Western movie. Instead of staring down imminent death, it’s the awkward dance of trying to get changed without the other person seeing your private bits.
Xander starts to turn to face the wall and I quickly do the same, snatching the sleepwear out of my bag. I guess I’m changing now.
I rip off my tank top and bra, but my hair gets caught in the clasp and I can’t untangle it.
Never in my entire life of having to remove my bra has my hair gotten caught in the clasp.
Am I having a stroke? I ignore that it might just be the Xander effect because in the matter of seconds since I started stripping, I’m sweating.
This does not help me in releasing the clasp from my hair that shall now be referred to as “the bird’s nest.” Growing more desperate by the second, I bail on the bra for a moment, boobs out, and start peeling off my skinny jeans and underwear, forgetting that I haven’t kicked my sneakers off.
I try to use my right foot to jimmy my left foot out without having to bend over and untie the laces, but it doesn’t work. Damn high tops.
So this is how I die. By humiliation.
I can hear the final piece of clothing being put on across the room. How do I know what a final piece of clothing sounds like? The silence is a dead giveaway. I frantically bend down and start undoing the shoelaces.
“You done?” I say into the silence coming from the other side of the room.
“Yep,” Xander says.
I manage to get one shoe off and I’m working on the other. My jeans are down to my ankles.
“Oh shit, sorry,” Xander says to my back.
I spring up and turn, the hunter becoming the hunted. We stare at each other eye to eye. My boobs are hanging out. Just swinging in the wind. My jeans and underwear are around my ankles. One hand springs up to cover as much boob as possible. The other attempts to cover my vagina area.
“What the fuck?” I say, finally releasing my second shoe.
Xander turns around, lightning quick. “I’m sorry. I thought you were done.”
“I was asking if you were done, not saying I was done,” I hiss, finally feeling sweet freedom as my skinny jeans come off. I pull on the flannel pajama set, but I can’t get the bra free from the bird’s nest.
I consider for a moment playing this off like it’s a new fashion trend. I bet I could sleep with it just hanging in my hair, channeling my trashy university days. He probably wouldn’t notice.
Instead, my scalp starts throbbing at the tension, so I look up to see Xander facing the wall.
I’ve got the vantage point here because I’m facing him, so I give myself a few seconds to sweep my eyes over his body.
He’s wearing (surprise) a white T-shirt and gray sweatpants.
His hand returns to rub his neck and his shoulders flex under his T-shirt.
I move my eyes down to his butt—it’s a very nice butt—and then stop. Not the time. Not the place.
I walk up to him and tap him on the shoulder.
“Is it safe for me to turn around?” he says.
Safe? Like my naked body is a threat? It wasn’t a threat when he moaned my name between my legs. More like a treat, he’d said. I ignore the pulsing between my thighs this memory is solely responsible for and answer his question.
“Yes.” It’s one word, but it’s better than none. Xander turns around. His eyes are careful not to dip below my eyeline before landing on the bra in my hair.
“I need your help,” I say, as he tracks the dubious look on my face. “Please.”
I must do something good with my eyes when I say “please” because the hard line of his mouth tips at the end.
“Okay,” he says, lifting his hands up to my head and getting to work.
First, assessing. Delicately moving my hair around to see where the clasp is buried.
I can’t help but notice the single swallow tattoo on his right bicep.
He’s kept that side of his body completely clean apart from the little blue bird.
He’d told me once that the swallow represents successful voyages, hope, and the warmth of home.
Like even if you set someone free, their love can come back.
I remember rolling my eyes at this before he quickly pinned me to the bed and made me forget. Until now.
His left arm though, is covered in a full sleeve. I tilt my head to the side in an attempt to study the intricate details, but my hair pulls. “Ouch.”
“Sorry,” he mutters before rubbing my scalp, and I let a groan slip without any consideration for where I am and who I’m with. Shit. He drops his hands from my head immediately before bending down so my entire vision is Xander and his curls.
“Excuse me, Ms. Hutchinson. What was that?” he says, mimicking my teacher voice I pulled on him in the parking lot. A devilish grin creeps over his face, almost lighting him up at my involuntary admission that I like the way he touches me.
“It was an unapproved groan,” I say, scoffing.
“Oh, so your subconscious is trying to tell me something?” He’s still bent down, my entire vision taken up by Xander’s face.
And just like I have no control over my vocal cords, it appears I also have no control over my eyes because they can’t help themselves and flicker to his half-moon scar on the corner of his lip. “I wonder what it is.”
“You were good in bed eleven years ago. Want a medal?” I say, defending myself.
“Your muscle memory seems to think I deserve one,” he says, quick with the comeback.
“Shut up,” I counter, regressing to my teenage dirtbag phase. I force my eyes back on his and will myself not to break. His eyes lock on mine. My stomach does a lazy forward roll. It’s official. He’s staring at me. And I’m staring at him. And what we have here, is a stare off. I count my breath.
One.
Two.
Three.
There is no way I’m losing this stare off. Especially after the unconscious moaning. I’ll never live it down. Don’t break, Ash. Don’t break.
“Come sit on the end of the bed. I need a better angle,” Xander says, finally breaking eye contact.
I may have won this battle, but we’ve still got four weeks of each other’s company, so I do as I’m told and perch on the end of the bed. I have never sat on a bed with such perfect posture as I do right now. And only when I have my back to him do I allow a victory smile.
Of course, I am immediately humbled when I feel the mattress sinking in on either side of me as Xander kneels behind me, reminding me just how close his body is to mine. My heart beats faster as my mind conjures up another memory of Xander kneeling in a different position.
I reprimand myself by engaging my core and partaking in the longest workout I’ve given my abs in my entire life but, as promised, this has improved his technique.
Just when I think I’m completely in control, the coolest of the cool, an expert in being comfortable, Xander’s fingers brush my scalp and my body goes haywire. I go ramrod straight from the electric shock.
I’m going to start shaking any minute from muscular fatigue when my bra lands in my lap.
Ah, freedom.