Page 45 of Not Exactly a Small-Town Romance

But Kelsey’s deep, even breathing was the perfect white noise. For a while, I propped myself up on my elbow, watching her slumber in the moonlight seeping through the threadbare curtains.

Then I slept.

I wake when I try to shift to a new position, but can’t. Something weighs down my legs.

The light from the window is no longer blue, but orange-gold. Dawn.

And Kelsey’s body is partially thrown over mine. The pillow barrier is behind her, and the two of us lie on one side of it.

She scaled the Walls of Jericho in her sleep.

I lie on my back, pinned by her leg and hip. Her head is tucked against my neck.

How long have we slept like this?

It takes self-control not to wrap my arm around her and draw her closer. I’m afraid to move or to touch her anyplace new, lest she wake and withdraw in embarrassment.

I breathe slowly and evenly, taking her in. Her leg is tan and toned, not that she’s exercised a day in her life. It’s the heels. She wears them always, despite the lengthy walk from the office to her car, and how she loves to spontaneously dance or twirl around a lamppost. She likes living life like it’s a musical.

This trip is no different, even though the genre has changed. Is she really going to find her great love using rom-com story beats?

She sure seems determined to try.

A lock of wheat-blond hair tickles my arm. I try to ignore it and hang on to this moment as long as possible.

But eventually my muscle twitches involuntarily, and Kelsey startles awake.

She lifts her head, disoriented, then looks up at me and groans.

And not in a good way.

“You all right?” I ask her.

“I stealth cuddled you. It’s my thing.”

“It’s all right. It’s a cute thing.”

She pulls away and rolls back over the pillow wall. “That had to be so awkward.”

I sit up and make a show of stretching with clear nonchalance. “I’m used to women being unable to resist my animal magnetism.”

The pillow smacks the side of my head before I even see it coming.

“Hey!” I snatch the pillow from her and wallop her midsection. “I’m a brutal survivalist when it comes to pillow fights.”

She dives beneath the bedspread. “I surrender!”

I drop the pillow in its place against the headboard. Our silliness has created an ache in my chest. I don’t get mornings like this. Not as a kid. My parents would have fired a nanny who let us carry on with pillows.

And it certainly would never have happened with the upwardly mobile women trying to leave a perfect impression after spending the night. I’ve caught more than one of them refreshing their makeup in the wee hours, presumably so I would think theywoke up that way.

And here’s Kelsey, emerging from the covers with her hair a wild mess, her cheeks pink, the remnants of a crease from my shirt imprinted on her forehead.

And she’s perfect.

I wouldn’t change a thing.

“Do you accept my surrender?” she asks.

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