Page 36 of Not That Into You

I nod. “Good choice.”

“But it’s a bit wrinkled.”

That’s an understatement. I hold out my hand. “Give it to me.”

“What?”

“Give me the jumpsuit. I’ll iron it.”

“You’ll iron it?”

“Yes.”

“You iron?”

“Yes.”

“I can iron my own clothes.”

“I’m sure you can, but it’ll be faster if I do it.”

“How do you figure?”

I cast a pained look at the wrinkled jumpsuit. “Because I’m guessing I have more experience than you do.”

“I know there’s an insult in there somewhere, but I’m going to ignore it because I hate ironing. Here.”

She hands me the jumpsuit, and I disappear into my closet again.

“You have an iron in there?”

“Yes.”

She appears in the doorway. “I was kidding.”

“I wasn’t.” Pulling out the iron and built-in ironing board, I get to work, ignoring her curious stare.

“So.”

“So.” I run the iron with practiced precision over one of the pant legs. Did she crumple it up into a ball before packing it? Linen wrinkles easily, but some of these wrinkles seem almost intentional.

“Are we sharing the bed?”

“Now?” I release some steam and move on to the second leg.

“No. Tonight.”

Oh. That makes more sense. We don’t have time for a quickie. I look up with a grin. “Yes.”

She frowns.

“Is that a problem?”

“A gentleman would offer to sleep on the floor.”

I snort. “No, he wouldn’t. It’s a king. There’s plenty of room.”

She presses her lips together. “You seem like the kind of guy who spreads out.”

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