Chapter 9 Annabelle
Annabelle
The storm is not letting up.
The candles? Have burned down to nubs.
I yawn, covering my mouth with the back of my hand. I’m exhausted. Warm—maybe even a little content—but so, so tired. The fire is a welcome, cozy glow; the couch is comfy, too, and all the adrenaline from earlier this evening has melted away, leaving me heavy and drowsy.
Still, there’s a weird guilt nagging at me. Would I be abandoning Maverick to the storm if I went to sleep first?
He notices my heavy lids, his gaze catching mine, light flickering across his eyes. “You should get some sleep,” he says. “It’s been a long day.”
We haven’t done much of anything, unless you count swimming and splashing around in the water.
“I will.” I hesitate. “But, um. The couch is my bed . . . and we’re both camped out on it.”
So yeah.
Maverick shifts, glancing toward the dark hallway that leads to the bedroom. I see the tension in his shoulders, the way he tries to mask it as he sighs. “I’m in no rush.”
No. He wouldn’t be, would he? Not with the storm still cracking outside. The fact that this big, broad-shouldered man is rattled by thunder does something to me—warms something soft inside my chest. But the part that gets me even more? He’s trusting me to be here.
I open my mouth to reassure him, but then he yawns obnoxiously—and I giggle. “You faker. You’re exhausted.” I hesitate, biting my bottom lip. “Would it be weird if I—I don’t know—I offered to share the bed with you?”
His head tilts, eyes flicking up to meet mine. “Share the bed?” he echoes, making sure he heard me right. “My bed, you mean?”
Semantics. “Yeah,” I say, voice soft. “I mean, you don’t have to be alone in the storm; I’m not out here in the dark. We just . . .” I shrug. “Share the space.”
One side of his mouth kicks up into a slow grin. “Wow. What a tempting offer.”
I nudge his knee with mine. “It’s purely practical.”
He pretends to think it over. “So strictly survival based?”
“Exactly,” I say, trying not to smile too hard. “Hands to ourselves, no funny business. I swear I won’t even breathe in your direction.”
He pulls a face as if he hates that idea. “No breathing? Wow. You hate the dark more than I hate storms if you’re willing to give up breath.”
I laugh before yawning yet again. “I’m trying to sweeten the deal.”
“Fine, I accept. But only if you wear pajamas.”
I mean, Obviously we’re wearing pajamas.
Except . . .
Not expecting a roommate, the only pajamas I brought are skimpy. Sexy cute? Yes. Appropriate for sharing a bed with a very large, very warm, very male stranger? Debatable.
I snort. “Define pajamas.”
His eyebrows rise, clearly amused. “You know. Fabric. Coverage. Something that won’t land us in morally gray territory.”
Morally gray territory? Sounds delicious and exciting, if you ask me!
“Gotcha.” I stand, adjusting the blanket around my shoulders. “Come on, Captain Scaredy-Cat. Let’s go to bed appropriately next to each other without making it weird.”
Too late.
It’s already weird.
We go off in opposite directions, using the flashlights on our phones—him toward the bedroom, me toward my duffel near the bathroom, my makeshift camp since I have no bedroom.
I take my sweet time changing in the modest light, mostly because I’m trying to work up the nerve to walk to the shared bed wearing my clean sleep clothes: a thin white tank that clings in all the places it shouldn’t and satin lavender sleep shorts that could pass as underwear.
I pull on the bottoms. Brush my teeth in the dark. Pee.
When I step into the bedroom, he’s there—and he’s not under the covers yet.
Nope. Why would he be?
Maverick is standing at the edge of the bed, raking a hand through his hair, wearing nothing but dark boxer briefs that sit low on his hips, shadows hitting the V of his abs, and suddenly I forget how walking works . . .
Cool, cool.
My brain has left the chat.
He glances up, gaze doing a fast sweep of my body, from my bare legs to the nipples pressing against my tank top before he catches himself and glances quickly away, jaw clenching.
Looks toward the ceiling like it’s fascinating.
“I see we’ve both ignored the pajama policy,” he says at last.
“I layered myself up emotionally,” I say sweetly, climbing onto the opposite side of the bed and fluffing my pillow so it’s just the way I like it.
“Excellent,” he says sarcastically. “Emotional layering is the safest kind.”
We slide under the covers. There’s about eight inches of air and bedding between us, but it might as well be a neon-lit danger zone with flashing sirens and a sign that reads: No Touching, You Idiots.
Maverick folds his hands over his chest. I pretend to get comfortable and thank the Lord I can’t see the flex of his arms or the way the blanket dips at his hips because he’s warm and doesn’t want to cover all the way up.
Outside, thunder cracks. Inside, we lie still—two very, very overstimulated strangers pretending we are perfectly normal about this situation. Nothing to see here, folks! It’s just us, sharing a bed!
He doesn’t even like me! I annoy him. I’m squatting in his cottage, allegedly.
“Night,” I whisper.
“Night,” he murmurs. I swear, even in the dark, I feel his grin.
“Stop breathing weird.” I grumble, irritated at his good humor.
“I am literally breathing like a normal person.”
“Yeah, well—it’s loud.” A distracting reminder that he’s present and inches away, and good looking.
There’s a beat of silence. Then there’s a pull from the sheets; a rustle coupled with the shift of weight on the mattress.
He turns toward me.
I stay on my back—waiting—staring toward the ceiling and pretending my heart isn’t thudding like a teenage girl’s in a sleepover game of seven minutes in heaven.
“Question,” he whispers. “What happens if I roll over in my sleep and accidentally brush your knee or something?”
Pfft. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” He sounds skeptical. “Not even a warning elbow to the ribs?”
“Depends how much quote, unquote, ‘brushing’ is happening.” I’m smiling in the dark now, too, despite my best efforts to remain unaffected by his sexiness.
God, I am so, so weak.
I’ve known this man for two days, and hookups are not my style.
They’re Not! Stop Judging Me!
I sniff the air and inwardly groan; he smells amazing. His body is warm—a blazing inferno. He’s not even touching me, and I’m fighting the urge to roll closer like some affection-starved idiot.
Also? The bed is not as big as it looked when it was empty. In fact, it’s shrinking by the second.
Another flash of lightning flickers through the room. For one brief second, I can see his eyes watching me, hand tucked beneath his chin, biceps bulging.
The flash fades, plunging us back into darkness.
I huff. “This is dumb.”
I hear his brows rise. “What is?”
“This! Us. Lying here. Not sleeping.” Not touching. Not doing anything but whispering like two teenagers at summer camp. A rumble of thunder punctuates my sentence.
“I’m tired,” he says quietly. “But I’m also wired—if that makes sense.”
Same. I am way too aware of him beside me, and then he makes it worse.
More thunder. It’s loud, causing the bedside tables to rattle.
“Would it be bad if I ask you to scoot closer?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper, already an inch nearer.
My stomach does a pirouette. “You scared?” I ask.
He grunts, shifting again, the mattress dipping as his arm moves under his head and his massive body finds a new position. I scoot an inch toward the middle of the mattress, meeting him in the middle.
Fine, it’s more like two inches. Enough that the heat from his body begins to scorch my skin.
“This okay?” he whispers.
I nod, forgetting for a second that he can’t see me. “Yeah.” Sure.
Our knees touch. Our feet. Then traitorously our calves connect like magnets finally giving in.
My heart? A total backstabbing bitch! She’s pounding out “Kiss him kiss him kiss him” like a commandment carved into a tree trunk.
No.
No, We Are Not Kissing! We are not touching lips or tongues or anything else. There will be no swapping of bodily fluids on this bed, this mattress, this extremely warm battlefield of bad decisions.
But . . .
It would kill time.
It would definitely take his mind off the storm.
And I haven’t had a man touch my boobs in literal weeks. Tim doesn’t count—he always seemed slightly annoyed I had them in the first place. Our relationship was mostly emotional. If you can call talking about city council budgets and CrossFit macros emotional.
I glance at where his face is. I can’t see him in the dark, but I know he’s watching me.
Waiting.
God, he smells so good . . .
“Callum,” I whisper, testing out his real name again.
“Mmm?” His chest rumbles.
Um. “Just checking to see if you’re awake.”
A soft chuckle. “It’s been one minute.”
Oh. Right.
“I’m not kissing you,” I blurt, and then immediately slap a hand over my mouth like that’ll stuff the words back in. Jesus. Could I be more awkward?
There’s a beat. The kind of pause that says he’s fighting a grin.
“Okay,” he says smoothly.
My pulse kicks. “Unless the storm gets worse.”
He chuckles under his breath. “Copy that.”
Why is he being so agreeable? Jeez. I turn my face into the pillow, mortified. Heat rolls off my cheeks. Burning. But before I can spiral deeper into internal panic, the sky outside cracks wide open.
Boom.
Mother Nature slams into the cabin like it’s trying to knock down the front door, remind us that we are vulnerable humans at her will. At her mercy . . .
Lightning follows instantly, lighting the room for a full second like someone switched on a spotlight. I flinch. So does he.
Then—
“Well,” Maverick says, voice husky and way too calm for what’s about to happen. “That felt definitive.”
My eyes pop open. “What did?”
“The storm,” he says, already shifting closer. “It’s getting worse.”
“I mean, yes, technically, but—”
He doesn’t wait for me to finish.
One hand curls around my waist, slow and warm, pulling me gently toward him, and then his mouth is on mine—firm—as if he’s been waiting to devour me since the moment he saw me lying in that hammock.
And he has.
Oh, he has . . .
Immediately, I melt. He kisses like a man who means it—no hesitation, no nonsense, just heat and precision and a moan from my throat I can’t stop. He kisses like a man possessed. Or afraid. Like a man who needs a distraction and has found the perfect one in me.
I don’t mind.
I want this—whatever this is, even for tonight.