I felt a bit squirmy, but persevered. “If nighttime cuddling is a dealbreaker for a guy… Well, I guess he’s not my guy.”
Graham was silent. I could almost hear the wheels turning in his head as he mulled over everything I’d told him. Honestly, I was in a bit of shock that I’d spilled the beans so thoroughly. I half-expected to feel panic clawing at my throat, desperation to snatch back every word that had come out of my mouth and shove them back inside, deep down where they would never again see the light of day.
To my surprise, all I felt was… calm. At ease. Like I’d set down a heavy load I hadn’t even realized I was carrying. It was odd and more than a little unsettling to know that Graham Graves was capable of pulling the truth from me when no one else ever managed. For my own sanity, I decided not to examine that fact too closely.
“Besides,” I said, forcing a lighter tone. “I’ve also been known to sleepwalk.”
“Seriously?”
“Occasionally,” I stressed, defensive.
“I thought that was something people only did in books and movies.”
“If only.”
Now, why hadn’t I just told him that from the start? It was a much simpler explanation than my traumatic backstory.
Way to overshare, psycho…
“So, you’re a sleepwalking insomniac with trust issues?”
“Occasionalsleepwalker,” I amended. “But yeah, I guess that’s generally accurate.”
“I’m sorry.”
I jolted at the unexpected apology. “Why? It’s not your fault.”
“Just because it’s not my fault doesn’t mean I don’t wish I could fix it for you.”
That quiet statement, for whatever reason, made my eyes sting with tears. I blinked them rapidly away. What the hell was the matter with me? My emotions were like a rollercoaster tonight. I blamed the lack of sleep. And the lack of dinner. I’d planned to eat at the pub with Florence. My mid-afternoon snack — a greek yogurt and granola from the work fridge — had digested hours ago.
“You want me to go sleep in the bathtub?” Graham offered, fighting off a yawn.
I snorted at the image of his long limbs trying to fit horizontal in his pedestal tub. “That won’t be necessary.”
“You sure?”
“Don’t start being nice to me now, Graham. You’ll kill your street cred.”
“God knows we can’t have that,” he muttered dryly, then added, “I’m fading here.”
“So, sleep. I’ll be fine.”
He grunted and rolled over. When he spoke again, his voice was somewhat muffled by his pillow. “I’ll take you home as soon as it’s light out. You can get some rest once you’re home in your own bed.”
“But the store—”
“Don’t worry about the store.”
“But it’s a Saturday—”
“We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
“I can’t just—”
“Tomorrow.”
He sounded so weary, I found myself unable to fight with him any longer. We fell silent and, after a few moments, I wondered if he’d drifted off. But his voice came again, thick with sleep.