28. I Don’t Snore
I DON’T SNORE
Mark
Out the window, the night sky is blurry. Silence engulfs me as I glance around the unfamiliar room. Yawning, I rub a hand along my chin, then hunt for my glasses.
What day is it?
What the hell time is it?
Spotting my glasses on a marble coffee table, I grab them and put them on.
I’m in the tennis-court-size den of the mansion, and all the lights are out. One glance at my clothes tells me I conked out on the cushy couch.
In my defense, your honor, this couch is mighty comfy.
Except for . . . this book under my thigh. I reach for it—one of Rosie’s early reader books, about a sporty girl.
Like the kid who’s snoring softly next to me.
How long have we been sleeping?
No idea.
I stand and scoop her into my arms. She murmurs something, then drops her head to my chest. I carry her up the stairs and to her room, next to Bridget’s.
My ex’s door is ajar but it’s dark in there.
Bridget loves her sleep, and will get plenty more of it when I take off with Rosie Saturday night and my ex does . . . whatever.
But . . . so what?
It suddenly strikes me that I’m tired of being tired of Bridget. I’ve got my kid, and my work, and my life in New York, and Bridget can just do her thing. I don’t care so much anymore.
And that feels good.
I lower Rosie onto the twin bed. She doesn’t wake up once, so I don’t bother to tell her to put on jammies or brush her teeth.
Leaning down, I kiss her forehead. “Love you, cupcake,” I whisper, then leave, padding barefoot along the hall and back down the stairs.
The sleek modern clock on the wall ticks past eleven-thirty. Everyone’s asleep, but my thoughts veer to one person only.
Is Asher in the guest house, alone and waiting for me? Going for a dip, hoping I’ll join him? Drinking a whiskey poolside, looking ridiculously sexy as he waits for me to ravage him?
I’ll take all of the above, thank you very much.
But when I slide open the glass doors and walk past the water, the pool is dark and quiet.
My gaze flicks to the chair by the potted palm this time.
A white-hot image flashes before me of what he did to me on that chair last night, but that’s chased by other images too.
Yesterday, walking around the city so comfortably together.
This morning in bed, talking like it’s just what we do. Even playing in the pool with my kid.
Which is stupid. Just stupid to think of.
Best to focus on sex.
Maybe he’s waiting in bed for me.
That possibility puts a spring in my step, but when I open the door to the guest house, it’s empty and dark. I try to shrug away the disappointment.
It’s fine.
I’m here for my sister anyway, and today, I helped her with wedding stuff. That’s the point of this trip.
After I brush my teeth, I head to my room. A pang in my chest twinges as I pass Asher’s room, which is so, so dumb.
It’s just the sex I’m missing.
That’s all.
In my room, I get undressed, then slide into bed and grab my phone from the nightstand. After I unlock it, my text notifications rain down on the screen.
Brett: God, will you please come back from vacay because I’m sick of getting picked off by Ryan at Chase.
Better news: Options got clobbered for a minute and I covered your short in September volatility. You’re welcome. And even better news (for me), knight takes rook.
But seriously, I hope you’re having fun. If you’re not, go find some fun. Get a sunburn. Get laid. Or I will never share my list of the best secret spots in the city for pork buns ever again.
Damn, I can’t believe I left that rook exposed. I guess my mind hasn’t been on chess.
Mark: One, you can’t resist sharing your finds so I call bullshit on your threat. Two, I’m definitely enjoying it.
Brett : Define “enjoying.” It better not be that you read some new how-stuff-works book while watching the market.
I snicker. I haven’t even opened a book since arriving at Disney World for Horny Adults. And I’m not going to tell him exactly how I’m whiling away the hours.
Mark: Clubbing, Brett. I’ve been clubbing.
It’s the truth, but he’ll never believe me. I click to Valencia’s text next.
Valencia: Did you know Blackbeard likes to smell my hair? As I tell Zoe, my coconut shampoo is definitely catnip, since it drives her crazy too.
Mark: I guess if I ever want to turn on my cat, I’ll know the trick now.
I’m about to shut down the app when I spot a text at the bottom of the names. And fuck, if it doesn’t make my heart leap.
Asher: Captain Filthy Mind . . . or should I call you Sleeping Babe?
(Incidentally, you’re still smoking hot when you’re snoring because now I know all the dirty thoughts running through your dreams are about me.) Alas, duty calls.
The groom has corralled me for a drink. I’ll be back a little after midnight.
But I have my heart and dick set on 33A . . .
—The superhot wingman
And my chest officially flutters. From the nicknames, from the message, from the everything. I’m fucked now in a whole new way.
Especially since I know I shouldn’t respond.
But I do anyway.
Mark: I don’t snore.
Then I get out of bed, head to Asher’s room, and set down my phone on . . .
I stop in my tracks as the thought finishes, hitting me hard . . . my side of the bed.
Well, it has been my side for the last few nights.
When in Rome, and all.
I take off my glasses and slip under the covers, picturing 33A. And B. And C.
But apparently, hitting multiple list items in a twenty-four-hour period, plus parenting, plus managing my parents, and seeing my ex, tires me all the fuck out. I close my eyes. Just for a minute.
I see the surface of the swimming pool behind my eyelids. I hear Asher’s laugh, and Rosie’s giggle. I float along the surface.
The door creaks somewhere in the corner of my mind. I flip to my side, but don’t open my eyes.