Page 111 of Against The Rules

If she lived with me, I could help her. She could use my insurance—our insurance—and get the help she needs. I don’t know enough about eating disorders to know how bad it is, but fuck, something isn’t right with her.

I turn off the shower, sufficiently better smelling, although now I smell like a field of flowers or whatever the fuck it is Savannah uses.

Still better than cigar smoke. Worlds better. I’d rather smell like Savannah than most things any day of the damn week. I’m taller than her showerhead, though, and I have to do a weird crouch to get out of the shower at all, drying off as best I can with her towel.

She would be more comfortable in my house. There’s no doubt in my mind.

“How’re things with your roommate?” I call out, wiping off my face and doing the best I can to dry my hair.

“Presley?” I can hear her sigh from the other room. “Fine, I guess. I hardly see her, but it’s less awkward that way. I worry about her, though, you know? It’s hard when you know someone is headed down a path that could get them hurt and you’re not able to stop them from crashing headfirst.”

“I hear that,” I say. “How’s dance? I know you said your director… what’s her name, Rebecca, right? She was pissed after my stunt with the rose, right? Is that all good now?”

I tie the towel around my hips as best I can, half-hoping it falls off and Savannah throws herself at me. Dare to dream.

“Pissed doesn’t even begin to describe it. Ugh. I didn’t want to get into it on texts, you know? She’s awful. Here,” she throws a bundle of clothes at me, and I stare at her.

“What the fuck is this?” Jealousy surges in me, unbidden and so strong it takes me by surprise. “Are you giving me your ex-boyfriend’s clothes to wear? Absolutely not.”

To my surprise, she laughs and rolls her eyes. “No, you goofball. They’re my husband’s clothes, actually. The ones he put on me after he made me come about a billion times at his football player mansion.”

“Oh.” I deflate, feeling like the goofball she called me. “Sorry.”

“Do you want to watch TV?” she asks, trying and failing at not watching me get dressed.

If I flex a little more than necessary, putting on a show for her, sue me.

“I would love to,” I say. “Sorry. I got jealous, thinking about uh, another guy’s clothes here.”

“Tyler,” she says, climbing off her bed and closing the distance between us. “You’re the only husband I’ve ever had.”

I reach for her, but she dances out of my grasp, heading back out the door to her room.

I’ll be the only husband she ever has, damn it.

Savannah fits so perfectly in the crook of my arm, against my body, her presence warm and soft, and even though the blanket she insists on throwing over herself is too hot for me, if she’s comfortable, that’s all that matters.

Before long, I’m dozing while the Real Housewives of Where-the-fuck-ever bicker, and Savannah’s fast asleep in my arms.

This wasn’t the sex-filled evening I thought I’d be having, but as I carry her to her bed, cuddling up next to her soft, pliant body, I can only think one thing:

This might be even better.

CHAPTER 48

SAVANNAH

My alarm goes off and I bolt upright, whatever dream I was having leaving me sweating and sick-feeling.

“Peaches, what’s wrong?” Ty’s arm rests heavy on my hips, and I blink, coming back to reality.

“Bad dream,” I answer, reaching for my phone, trying to turn it off, which leads me to straddling Ty. And his morning boner. I stare down at him, and he grins up at me, his hair all messy and his lips swollen with sleep.

“I could get used to this,” he says, his voice husky.

My phone’s still going off, so I grab it, then stare at the screen. “Ty… the clinic. It’s, we—shit. Did you bring your stuff? Oh no. We’re going to be late.”

“Relax, Peaches. All you have to do is throw on dance clothes, right?” he squints at his watch. “We don’t have to be there for another hour.”

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