Page 93 of One Wrong Move

I look up at where he’s lowering the window shades. “What? That looks so uncomfortable.”

“It’ll be fine.”

I shake my head. “That’s ridiculous, come on. I can’t sleep comfortably knowing you’re… not. There’s enough room here for us both.”

He pauses, hands stilling on the half-lowered blinds. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. It’s only for a few hours, anyway.”

I slip beneath the covers and chuck my robe across the room. The bed is a bit too soft, but it’s warm, and the pillow is wonderfully fluffy behind my head. It’s been almost a full minute of me situating myself, and the silence in the room grows more apparent.

“All right, then,” he finally says.

I look up at the ceiling as Nate climbs in bed. With no TV, no phone, no book, I don’t know what to do. Other than lie here and feel the undulations of the mattress as he settles into place.

We both lie there without saying anything as the moment stretches.

“I like this place,” I manage after a while.

He runs a hand over his face. “Only you could say that and sound sincere.”

“You don’t? It’s so cute, and historical, and the lady was so nice to us. Look at the crown molding.”

“This place is ready to fall apart.”

“No it’s not,” I say. “Isn’t the decor in here nice?”

“It looks about seventy years behind the times.”

“But that’s the point.” I turn on my side, facing him. “It’s meant to evoke memories of a different era.”

“No one who stays here can remember the eighteen-fifties.”

I roll my eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“I like when you do that,” he says. “And yes. I know what you mean.”

His eyes are unreadable again, in this dimly lit room, but there’s a slight tilt to his lips.

“Like what when I do it?”

“Roll your eyes at me.”

I blink. “I do that?”

“Yes, quite frequently, actually, when you’re exasperated.” His smile widens at my expression. “Don’t stop doing it.”

“Wow. I didn’t realize I was.”

“Makes it even better,” he says. He turns onto his side, too, and now we’re facing each other over the expanse of the pillow between us.

I wet my lips. Let the silence stretch and envelop us. “I’m sorry about your car. I know she means a lot to you.”

His eyes narrow. “Yeah. It was my mistake. But we’ll get her fixed up.”

“Does everyone in your family like cars?”

“Not really.” His voice is questioning. “Where did that come from?”

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