Chapter Eighteen #3
Besides, he needs the rest more than I do. I know all too well how important a good night’s sleep is to an athlete anywhere close to his caliber.
“Absolutely not,” he huffs, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes.
“You’re letting me crash here because you were smart enough to realize that if I didn’t, I might undo all of your hard work.
” The words are crisp, and I narrow my eyes at him, because he doesn’t… sound drunk. He just sounds…resigned.
“Your sleep is more important than mine,” I tell him, meaning it.
The look he gives me is outraged. “Nothing about me is more important than you.”
I roll my eyes, slightly amused by his outburst. “Right.”
“Exactly. I can sleep anywhere.” He pats my couch as if to demonstrate that claim.
“If sleeping on the couch is good enough for you, then it’s good enough for me. Besides, you’ve got, like, a foot on me.” I lift my hand over my head, trying to demonstrate. “Not to mention I’ve been sleeping on the shitty couch in my office almost as often as I crash here.”
“The couch is too small for both of us. You’re tall, too. And I’m not even going to touch how I feel about you sleeping at work.” His voice is indignant, and I’m starting to realize I’m not the only stubborn one in this room. “How big is your bed?”
My bed is one of the few splurges I’ve allowed myself, because god, I do love sleep. Another yawn takes me, and I clap my hand over my mouth.
“That’s it.” Tristan bounds off the couch, easily sliding past me and throwing open the door to my room. His long legs and the fact my apartment is tiny means it takes him about one stride and half a second to get there.
“Stop,” I say on a laugh, trying to push past him to close the door again. “It’s a mess.”
“It’s your mess, which means it’s not a mess at all, Sweet Cheeks.”
“Oh my god, you are so annoying.” I try to squeeze past him, which is probably the stupidest thing I’ve done in a while, because the man is a giant and a professional goalie.
My odds of getting past him are nil.
“Annoying because I’m right and you’re not,” he says, his hands braced on the door as I grunt, trying to worm between the jamb and his chest.
Then his hands wrap around my waist, and I squeak out a surprised breath as he picks me up, then tosses me easily onto my bed.
“It’s a king, I see,” Tristan says, rubbing his chin as I tug down my dress.
It’s ridden up horribly thanks to his manhandling, and I try to glare at him, but something about this situation is so absurd that I can’t keep a smile off my face.
“You know what I think?” He taps his forehead, and I snort. “I think we can both fit on this bed.”
“Tristan,” I tell him, sobering up.
He raises an eyebrow, and I squeal as he launches himself onto my bed.
“No street clothes on the bed,” I protest.
“Says the woman who sleeps on couches,” Tristan says, faking disdain. “But see?” He pulls his arms in tight. “I sleep like a canned sardine.”
“Yeah, a six-foot-six sardine.” I snort again.
“I like that little snort. Maybe I should call you Miss Piggy instead of Sweet Cheeks.”
“That is not…” I sigh, staring at the ceiling. “I know if I keep telling you not to do things, you’re just going to do them more.”
“I’m wounded,” he tells me, looking as pleased as the cat who ate the canary. “You’ve figured me all out, Sweet Cheeks.”
“You cannot sleep in my bed in your clothes, Tristan.”
“I can get naked,” he says slyly, turning onto his side and propping his chin in his hand. “Just say the word.”
“Stop.” I laugh again. “Get off my bed.”
He flashes me a wounded expression but stands up obediently.
And I fold like a bad hand at poker. “Fine. You can sleep with me. But you have to keep your hands to yourself.”
His hand shoots in the air, and I bite my cheeks to keep from encouraging him by laughing again.
“What, Tristan?”
“My feet?”
“What about them?” I blink.
“Do they have to stay to themselves?”
“If I wake up with your huge feet on me, I’m going smother you with a pillow.”
“What a way to go,” he responds without missing a beat, shaking his head seriously.
Laughter bursts out of me and I get off the bed, easily finding a huge shirt, a leftover from some ex in college I barely remember.
I toss the old tee to him, and he pauses, narrowing his eyes at the XXL tag.
“This is a man’s.”
“It was.” I shrug a shoulder, grabbing my most frumpy nightwear: worn polka-dot pajama pants and an ugly-ass shirt that says Team Building Exercise ’99. “I’m going to brush my teeth and wash my face. I’ll give you some privacy and find you a toothbrush.”
He doesn’t answer, though, still glaring at the T-shirt I tossed at him.
Whatever. Alcohol makes people weird.
I close the bathroom door behind me, find the Costco-size pack of toothbrushes, and set one out for him before getting to my nighttime routine. I stare at his brush while I wash my face and do my simple skin care, the seriousness of this so-called casual sleepover making my heartbeat pick up speed.
Moisturizer sits on my skin, and I pat at it delicately, staring at my reflection.
Or maybe this is as easy and casual as it gets.
Maybe this is how I start to change, with the simple act of letting a friend—a friend who just happens to be Tristan Gold—spend the night in my bed.
Sure. That’s all this is.