I open my mouth to say something. Anything, but nothing comes out. I can’t sleep in one of the cabins. They’re both booked. And I wouldn’t want our guests to see me bunking on the couch in the lodge if they are early risers.
“C’mon, Zach. It’s just sleep. I promise, I don’t even snore.”
And with that, she shuffles through the kitchen and climbs the three steps that lead to her side of the camper. With the reading light above her headboard still illuminated, Greta practically face-plants onto the mattress beside Russell.
“Hurry up,” she calls, the words muffled into her pillow. “I can still fall back asleep if you turn off the lights.”
An edge of grumpiness has crept into her voice, and this might be the most masochistic decision I’ve ever made, but who am I to argue with her and keep her awake.
I flip off the light on my side of the camper and then climb the steps. Hovering in the bathroom, I watch as Greta wriggles under her covers. Thank God. Because the sight of the back of her shorty shorts really was bad for my health. Especially with her Corgi print panties peeking out of them.
Aneurysms and cardiac arrest have happened with less cause.
Her eyes are already closed, but when I don’t move, she peels one open and glares at me.
“Move it, Rousseau.”
So I move it.
I climb onto her bed—which for the record is a hell of a lot more comfortable than mine, and I waste no time switching off her reading light. Lying on top of her covers on the razor’s edge of the left side of the bed, I blink up into the darkness and listen to the rain buffeting the side of the camper.
Winds are howling. We lie there in silence, and every now and then, a gust rocks the frame of the fifth wheel. Not badly, but enough to cause a little jostle. A lightning flash illuminates Greta’s room, and even though I’m all the way at the edge of the bed and there’s an obese Corgi between us, we’re still close. Very close.
“Man, that’s some storm,” she mutters into her pillow.
“Yep.”
Thank God for the storm. Otherwise, she might hear the strain in my voice.
Greta wriggles around, tugging on the sheets. Then she freezes.
“You’re not even under the covers.” She says this like it’s an outrage.
I can’t help it. I chuckle. “You don’t have to get mad. I’m fine.”
“I’m nottryingto get mad. I’mtryingto help you.” Even though she sounds really tired, all I can focus on is the signal flare of warmth that goes off in my chest atI’m trying to help you. “And it’s not fine. I’m not a leper, you know. You can sleep under the covers with me.”
Now she sounds grumpy and maybe a little offended. And what the hell am I supposed to do?
“Greta, it’s not—I don’t think you’re a leper.”Good one, Rousseau. What sweet talk.“I-I just wanted to give you your space.”
She snorts and flips onto her back, tugging the covers beneath me like a rip cord, nearly spinning me off the bed.“Please.We live in a shoe box. You’ve seen me on the toilet. I’ve ugly cried in front of you. What space are you talking about?”
Note to self: Greta gets grumpy when she’s woken up in the middle of the night. Be careful: it’s cute as hell.
“I’m getting under the covers.” And I do. The bed is warm from her body. This should feel like trespassing. Instead, it feels right. Like it was made for me.
And the temptation to reach across the distance between us and pull her to me is as pointed and threatening as a spear.
Control yourself, Rousseau.
I let go a sigh.
“See?” Greta murmurs, mistaking my giant exhale for relief. “That’s better, right?”
“Mm.”
Shetsks,and it’s this sound that tells me she’s not as sleepy as she was. I wince.