He smiles at that. ‘Did you used to make those when you were a kid?’
‘Well, yeah,’ I reply as if he’s a moron. ‘Didn’t you?’
‘Dan and I were more outdoorsy – making ramps so we could jump our bikes, that sort of thing.’
‘Really? I thought you’d be more of a nerdy kid, staying inside watching movies.’
‘There was a bit of that too – but I was always trying to one-up my big brother. If he jumped a three-foot ramp, I wanted to jump a four-foot one.’
‘And so began the illustrious career in stunts,’ I say, loving this insight.
He gives me a lopsided smile and nods. ‘My origin story,’ he says.
‘See? Now if you reallywerean asshole, it would be a lot darker than that. You would have been off building an evil lair or shooting squirrels with a BB gun or something.’
‘Hmm, not sure that tracks, but okay.’
A yawn catches me off guard – day drinking in the sunshine tends to make me sleepy – but I lean into it, and the release feelsamazing.
‘Do I need to tuck you in already?’ Nick teases.
‘Ground rule number two,’ I say, snapping to attention, ‘no more comments that are evenremotelyflirty.’
He regards me for an extremely long moment, then says, ‘Understood,’ in such a deep, husky tone that all I want is for him to tuck me in –allnightlong.
12
NICK
I shouldn’t have said that thing about tucking her in; it was playing with fire – abonfire, if that look on her face is anything to go by. But part of me wanted the reaction – the self-serving arsehole part. And no matter how hard Delaney tries to convince me otherwise, much of my behaviour today places me squarely in that camp.
I’m engaged. And blokes who are engaged should not be kissing cute Americans – or wanting to kiss cute Americans. Especially not cute Americans who wear lingerie to bed and might one day make your film.
‘This might sound completely mad after the lunch we had,’ I say, deliberately steering us into safer waters, ‘but I’m hungry.’
‘Oh my god, me too –starving!’ she exclaims and I stifle a laugh. I don’t want her thinking I’m laughing at her. ‘Do they have room service?’ she asks, dashing to the bureau by the door.
‘Probably, but wouldn’t you rather go somewhere?’
She holds up a folder. ‘Menu,’ she declares victoriously. ‘And no – to going out, I mean. I’m zonked. I want food, to chill out, then bed.’
‘Sounds good,’ I say, ignoring thatbedcould mean a multitude of things.
I peer through the doorway to the super king in the next room. Housekeeping’s been in – the bed’s made, its bedding tucked tautly. The pillow fort, as Delaney calls it, has been dismantled, the pillows now propped against the bedhead with the others.
Our bed resembles a bouncy castle.
Ourbed – gah!
‘How about pizza?’ she asks.
I break from my wayward thoughts and look over. ‘Sure.’
‘They’ve got two kinds – Caprese, with fresh mozzarella, tomato, and basil,’ she says, leaning heavily into her vowels – mozzarellahh, tomaytoh, baysil – also cute, which is not helping matters. ‘And there’sprosciutto e rucola.’ She looks up. ‘Rucola?’
‘Rocket – you’d say arugula.’
‘Ah, got it.’