Chapter 23
LILA
Some people get so worked up before a big event that they can’t sleep. I get insomnia afterwards.
Like the time my mom took me to Disneyland when I was nine.
I had no trouble sleeping on the car ride down there, or curled up next to my mom in bed at the motel that evening…
but the next night, when I should have been exhausted after a long day of rollercoaster rides and refined sugar, I found myself lying wide awake staring at the ceiling fan for hours, retroactive adrenaline buzzing through my veins.
Tonight, the same thing is happening. Only instead of reliving memories of Mickey Mouse, I’m replaying every moment of the hockey game in my mind. And instead of looking up at peeling paint on a popcorn ceiling, I’m watching my husband sleep.
Which might be as creepy as it sounds, but in my defense, it’s difficult to look anywhere else than at Archibald Fisher when you’re in a room with him, nevermind a bed.
Most of the time when I can’t sleep, I get up and paint, channeling my insomnia into creativity.
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve done that in the past year, standing in the firehouse dressed in my pajamas in the wee hours of the morning, fiercely painting until everything inside me spills onto the canvas and my mind goes calm.
Tonight, I don’t have any of my paint supplies with me, so instead I study Fisher from the other side of the California king like he’s my next subject.
Well, I say the other side, but in reality, I’m hovering close to one edge of the bed while he’s found his way to the middle over the past couple of hours.
He’s almost more beautiful when he sleeps.
As much as I enjoy his signature smirk and naughty grin, I like getting to see him like this.
With his breathing deep and slow, his strong, handsome features open and unguarded, he looks like a work of art.
Fisher stirs, rolling onto his side as he pushes the comforter off his body. A glimmer from the moonlight outside the window filters through the blinds, painting his face and torso in warped stripes of yellow.
“Mmmpf,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t wake up. Instead, he makes another sound in the back of his throat, a goofy little smile flickering on his face for a moment before his breathing deepens and slows once more.
I can’t help but smile, too. I wonder what he’s dreaming about that’s making him so happy.
Probably his incredible performance tonight.
I never thought I’d be a hockey fan, but the excitement in the arena was such a rush, it felt almost addictive.
It also didn’t hurt that the man of the hour happened to be my man.
Standing there wearing his name and number on my jacket gave me an overwhelming sense of pride.
Even though they’re here in town, Fisher’s parents didn’t turn up to watch—I checked—and as angry as that made me, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m just glad it didn’t throw Fisher off his game, and that I got to be there to support him.
Beside me, Fisher stirs in his sleep again.
A big arm reaches out and snakes around my waist. I suck in a sharp breath as his hand splays across my back, fingertips skimming the bare skin at my waist where my pajama shirt has ridden up.
He slides my body forward, closer to him.
“Mmm, I like that,” he says in a gruff whisper.
My heart picks up pace as I study his face, still bathed in the jagged lines of the moon’s glow. As far as I can tell, he’s still fast asleep and dreaming.
He’s a very wiggly sleeper. This morning, I woke up to find him cuddled up against me, holding me close in his strong arms…
something I tried not to dwell on too much today.
It felt way too good to be held, and I know better than to let myself read into something that happened when we weren’t even conscious of what was going on.
I’m still trying to decide if I should try and disentangle myself from Fisher’s embrace or if it would be wrong to just keep lying still, letting his warm hand rest on my back.
I mean, it would be a shame to move and accidentally wake him up when he’s sleeping so peacefully, right?
Maybe I could just close my eyes and try to fall asleep like this…
“You feel so good,” Fisher mumbles.
A flurry of sensation stirs across my skin as his big, callused hand begins to move, sliding up the length of my back and then tangling in my hair.
Oh my, is he having…that kind of dream?
Alarm bells ring in my head as Fisher moves closer, nuzzling his nose along the sensitive skin on my neck and inhaling deeply. “Mmm, you smell good, too.”
His words and touch make my mind spin with a strange combination of excitement, amusement, and thrilled panic, until a sobering thought crashes over me like a wave. Who’s he dreaming of right now?
I picture the beautiful model from the Jumbotron tonight proudly wearing a Fisher jersey as she held up her cute, flirty sign with an equally cute, flirty glint in her eye.
Something in my gut tells me she and Fisher have history.
Earlier, I didn’t mind that so much. I mainly thought it was sweet of Fisher to be thinking of me enough to reject her public advances and remind the crowd that he’s married…
but now that I think about it again, I’m not sure if he did that for my benefit, or if he’s still worried about making our marriage look authentic.
“What are you doing to me?” Fisher whispers against my skin, and this time, my shiver isn’t one of pleasure, but a stark reality check.
Fisher’s not really my man. My signature might be the one next to his on our marriage certificate, and I might be the woman lying next to him tonight, but I’m hardly the woman of his dreams. I’m the woman who was pretty much forced upon him due to shitty circumstances.
Maybe that beauty in the crowd earlier is exactly his usual type, and he’s dreaming of her right now.
Dreaming of the day he can be free of this marriage—of me—and go back to his bachelor lifestyle.
I swallow the ache this thought causes me, reminding myself that this is for the best. That falling for each other has never been part of the plan.
But then Fisher rasps out my name. My body freezes.
His eyes are still closed, but his cheeks are now flushed. Fisher’s lips part as he says my name again. “Lila.”
He’s dreaming about me. About being with me. Taking me. Having me.
My stomach tightens, and my body heats from the inside out…it takes everything inside me not to slide my palms up to his face, cup his jaw and kiss him so we can make his dream a reality together.
Like that wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world.
Clearly, I need to start thinking straight again. Take some space from the man who’s making me feel all kinds of things I shouldn’t be. In an effort not to get more entangled in his embrace or my feelings, I gently ease myself backwards, towards the edge of the bed.
Fisher groans as I move away from him, but luckily, he doesn’t wake up.
Quiet as a mouse, I swing my legs off of the bed.
I glance at Fisher one last time before I tiptoe out of the bedroom.
He’s kicked off all the blankets now, and he’s left in only his boxer briefs.
I practically drool at all the hard planes of muscle on display, but I force myself to leave the damn bedroom before I do something I’ll regret.
I force one foot in front of the other down the hallway, and when I reach the living area, I don’t turn on any lights for fear of waking anyone.
Quiet as a mouse, I make a cup of chai tea and stand at the window, sipping slowly and soaking in the glowing lights of the city set against a backdrop of velvety darkness.
Static energy crackles all over my body as the sound of my name on my husband’s lips replays in my mind.
My fingers itch, and I long for my paintbrush and easel.
This is how I get when I’m inspired, and I know the feeling won’t stop until I channel it into something creative.
I put my empty mug in the dishwasher, then retrieve the next best thing to my paint supplies—a sketchbook from my purse, which is hung over the back of a barstool.
Flipping open the sketchbook on the kitchen counter, I sweep my hair back into a messy bun on top of my head and grab a pencil, my loud thoughts fading into background noise as the lead tip moves across the page.
And then, finally, silence. My thoughts mute completely as my hands take over, funneling my tangled feelings onto paper.
I get lost in my sketch, allowing my thoughts and feelings to move through the pencil in my hand. All sense of time leaves me as I draw.
“Lila?”
The voice comes from behind me, my name spoken through the darkness for the third time tonight, and I nearly jump out of my skin. My pencil falls from my hand and clatters to the page as I whirl around and find Fisher standing at the end of the hallway.
He’s still in just his boxer briefs, and eyes are heavy with sleep. He scratches the back of his head as he looks at me in confusion, making his hair stand up in ten different directions. “What are you doing?”
“I was…” I trail off as I glance at time flashing on the oven, and balk that the digital clock reads four in the morning. Where the past two hours went, I have no idea. “Sorry if I woke you.”
“You didn’t.” He rubs his eyes and blinks, clearly still suspended somewhere in that strange space between dreams and waking. “I rolled over and realized you weren’t next to me in bed, so I came to check on you.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” I explain.
“Does that happen a lot?” Fisher asks, his gaze moving over me, lingering for a beat on the lace edges of my silky rose-pink camisole. His green eyes become less sleepy, more alert and focused. As if they like what they see.
I breathe out slowly, trying not to acknowledge the fizzy feeling that having his eyes on me brings. “Sometimes. I get this pent-up energy, and I can’t rest until I channel it into my art.”