He holds my gaze for a moment, his gray eyes hooded. “Too hot.”
My heartbeat pulses in my throat.
I’ll say.
I slink deeper under the top sheet, shimmying until I find my usual position. Next to me, Bridger heaves his body around, adjusting. And adjusting. And adjusting.
How can this man be uncomfortable in the most comfortable bed ever?
I peer at him sideways, fully horizontal, my cheek on the pillow. “Hey.”
He turns to face me, lips parted, hair rumpled already. “Hey.”
“You all right?”
His exhale is soft in the quiet. “Sure.”
“Can I turn the lights out now?”
His pupils dilate. “Anytime.”
“Okay, then.” Using the remote, I click off all the lamps and turn up the overhead fan. Bridger’s too hot, after all. It’s the very least I could do for him.
“Good night, husband,” I whisper into the dark.
“Good night, wife.”
Reader? I sleep crawled.
But I’ll go ahead and assume nobody needs a long, drawn-out description of the moment I woke up in Bridger’s arms. Again. I will say, at least this time, I wasn’t drooling. And we weren’t on a couch. In fact, we took up a whole lot of space in that big king-sized bed.
Bridger had one arm flung over his head and the other encircling my body like he never wanted to let go.
But we already decided on no descriptions, right?
Anyway. Back to breakfast.
I’m at the kitchen table, willing myself to stop blushing. My mother-in-law is beside me, draped in silk robes and silently sipping her coffee. To avoid arousing suspicion, I need my cheeks to get a grip. Immediately.
Because there’s nothing weird or blush-worthy about sleeping in your husband’s arms, right? I should not be this flustered. So I’ve been sticking to no eye contact, with her or with Bridger. Speaking of which, he’s at the stove scrambling eggs and sautéing diced vegetables in his pajamas, looking more handsome than any man has the right to.
“Can I top up your coffee, Margaret?” I blurt.
Super low-key.
She glances at her cup. Her smile is demure. “I still have plenty, thank you.”
“Lovely.” I smile back.Lovely?I literally never say lovely. “Well, when you’re ready,” I chirp, “say the word, and I’ll make us a fresh pot.”
“There’s half a pot left in the carafe,” Bridger announces over his shoulder.
“Ah. Great!” I grit my teeth. “Thank you for telling me,honey.”
We’re supposed to be on the same team. Partners in crime. The crime being marital deception. But he’s not helping my pursuit to be smooth. At all.
Soon, though, he comes to the table with a heaping platter of eggs and fresh vegetables, and the scent is so delectable, I immediately forgive him for spoiling my super-cool repartee with his mom.
“None for me, dear,” Margaret says when he offers her eggs.