“Don’t worry,” I say, fluffing my pillow. “I won’t be. Ready for lights out?”
She nods, looking like she wants to say more.
I flip off the lamp next to me, plunging us both into darkness, while the arctic air from the AC system kicks on. “Sweet dreams, Heart-Jammies.”
Another pillow hits me square in the face.
“How do you have such good aim in the dark?” I ask.
“Years of throwing things at Eli when he snores.”
“That explains it.” I settle onto my side, the bed squeaking loudly every time I move.
“Seriously, Marco? How many pillows do I have to throw at you to get you to stop that?”
“Who knows, maybe it will get my relatives off our case if they hear a lot of squeaking.”
“I shouldn’t have brought it up,” she moans, pulling the covers over her face. “I don’t know how I’m going to survive a week with you, Brendan Marco.”
I adjust the pillow under my head and stare at the ceiling.
You and me both.
EIGHTEEN
Scarlett
I’m cold. Miserable, actually. I don’t even think I can feel my toes anymore. They’re just frozen blocks on the end of my feet, and it’s all my fault because I thought I could trick Brendan into putting on a shirt if I told him I enjoyed the cold.
Instead, I froze all night because I’m too stubborn to admit the truth. That seeing him in bed with his shirt off was doing inconvenient—and definitely not friend-related—things to my heart.
I shouldn’t care whether he wears a shirt; I know I shouldn’t. But tell that to my stupid heart, which apparently has an uncontrollable weakness for Brendan Marco.
What irks me most is that while I’ve woken several times already, he apparently sleeps like a dead man who really does enjoy the arctic temperatures. I hope he wakes up with frostbite.
As the gray light of early morning peeks through the curtains, I take in his tousled, dark hair and that aggravating, bare chest.
He’s twisted up in his sheets, one arm thrown over his head, the other hanging off the bed like he’s too big for that ridiculously small pullout mattress.
Instead of counting sheep to fall asleep, I count his abs instead. When I reach six, I realize I must be severely sleep-deprived. Friends don’t count each other’s abs. Friends shouldn’t even notice them.
Frustrated, I sneak toward the bathroom, stubbing my pinky toe on the corner of my bedside table. A tiny whimper escapes before I clamp my mouth shut, hopping on one foot while trying not to wake Brendan.
The pullout bed squeaks as he rolls over and slowly sits up, stretching his arms above his head, all taut muscle and adorable messy hair.
How is it possible that he looks even better than when he got out of the Marines?
One eye cracks open. “Morning, Heart-Jammies,” he says, his eyes flitting over my pink shorts again. There’s only teasing in his eyes. Certainly nothing that suggests he sees me as anything more than a temporary girlfriend.
“Please don’t call meHeart-Jammies,” I insist, heading toward the bathroom. I don’t need his pectorals assaulting my eyes anymore.
“I thought you wanted a pet name for authenticity?” He tilts his head with that smug grin on his face.
“If you call meHeart-Jammiesin public, then I will personally reviveAss Coachand make sure the entire team hears it.”
He throws his sheet off. “If you think that’s going to stop me, think again. I’ve been called much worse.” He reaches for his suitcase and pulls out a pair of swim trunks.
“Are you seriously getting up at this ungodly hour?”