“I’m always up before dawn—military habit. I’m swimming laps before the wedding shower.” He glances over at my shocked face. “Want to join me?”
I’m not sure if this is a joke or an actual invitation. “Yeah, right,” I guffaw, not meeting his eyes. The last thing I need to do is parade around in a swimsuit in front of someone who looks like that.
He stares at me another beat, his gaze making my resolveweaken. “I thought you loved swimming? Weren’t you on the swim team in high school?”
“Yeah, but I haven’t done laps for ages.” I try to remember the last time I did anything more athletic than chasing down customers who forgot their phones in the cafe.
“You should come, just for fun,” he adds with that gleam in his eyes. “You’re always telling me I need to have more fun.”
I hate that he’s using my own words against me. Whoreallythinks lap swimming is fun? I didn’t even like it in high school when I was actually in great shape. I was only part of the team because Eli was an exceptional swimmer and pressured me to join.
“Thanks for the invite, but I don’t want your family watching me swim slower than an eighty-year-old grandma.”
“No one will even be at the pool at this hour.” He nods toward the clock, which confirms it’s an hour when no reasonable human should be conscious. “Did you bring your suit?”
“Yes, but I was only planning on using it to rot in a beach chair.”
“Scarlett.” There’s something in his expression that tells me he’s not letting this go until I agree. “Just put on your suit.”
Part of me wants to. But the logical part reminds me that hanging around him when I don’t have to will only complicate my life further. We’ll already be spending every waking moment together for wedding events. And the fact that I have to share a room with him is twisting up my feelings like a tangled necklace.
“The pool is indoor and heated, perfect for laps,” he adds. “You can even use the hot tub afterwards.”
My resolve crumbles at the wordshot tub.
“I’ll change in the bathroom,” I say quickly, grabbing my suit.
I’m almost to the bathroom when he adds, “Hey, did you sleep okay last night?”
I pause, thinking about how cold I was but refusing to admit it was my own fault. “I’ve slept better. How about you?”
“Actually,” he says with a sheepish grin, “the talking kept me up.”
“Talking?” I frown. “I didn’t hear anyone.”
His eyebrows rise. “You really don’t know?”
That’s when I notice the amused look on his face.
“Wait…are you referring tome?” I point at myself. “I didn’t talk in my sleep last night.”
“If you say so.” He doesn’t even try to hide his smirk.
I’ve actually talked in my sleep for years. My family can confirm—I’ve had entire conversations that I have no memory of later. It’s gotten slightly better in adulthood, usually only happening when I’m under stress.
I scoff at Brendan’s smug expression. “Listen, I hardly slept a wink between your squeaky bed and the…” I almost saycold, but correct myself. “Lumpy pillows.”
He lets out a low, raspy laugh as he pulls out some flip-flops. “Pretty sure you were having some really interesting dreams last night.”
I swallow. “Why? What did you hear?”
He lifts an eyebrow. “So you admit it?”
“Imightmumble sounds that couldbe mistaken for words,” I say, trying to convince him.
“Well, after last night’s monologue, I can’t wait to hear what you say about me.”
“You?” I let out a humorless laugh. “What makes you think I’d talk about you in my sleep?”