Page 111 of Never Fall for an Angel

It’s not like it makes a difference where he sleeps.Hekidnappedme, remember? I should get the bed on the principles of hospitality.

So why do I still feel like I ate a bag of sour candy?

My heart collapses when I hear the creak of the stairs, and I quickly rearrange as if I were getting ready for bed and not contemplating leaping from the back cliff to sink amongst the broken ship to hide from the embarrassment of being rejected.

When he stops at the top of the stairs, I force myself to meet him with an indifferent gaze.

Something tells me he can see right through it, though, judging by the way his eyes light with dark amusement.

“I get the side closest to the stairs.”

Alarms sound in my head when he steps over to the bed, leaving me frozen in place right in the center.

They get infinitely louder when he reaches over his head and tugs his shirt off.

My eyes travel over the thick, hard ridges of his abs, the tattoos, the sculpted V leading down beneath the jeans he’s wearing. Then . . . he shoves his jeans down his legs, standing before me in nothing but a pair of boxers with the best butt I’ve ever seen.

“My eyes are up here.”

Fuck.

I quickly look away, fluffing my pillow aggressively, and he chuckles under his breath, sliding into the bed beside me.

Okay, now that he’s in it, this bed feels small. Like baby mattress small. I’d forgotten how it feels to fall asleep next to him.

Not to mention hot. He’s like sleeping next to a space heater. In LA, it was a minor inconvenience. Here in the cold Washington fall, it’s far too tempting to curl into him.

He settles on his back, and so do I. A silence falls over the room, and neither of us speaks. Nor moves.

Hell, I don’t even breathe.

“Are you warm enough?” I ask after a moment, just to break up the silence.

I know, me personally? I’m on fucking fire.

“I’m good.”

I swallow over the thick lump in my throat.

This is just like those damn romances where there’s only one bed.

“I can scoot over—”

“Mila.”

Fuck.

“Stop.”

My voice squeaks when I respond. “Stop what?”

“Overthinking.”

May as well ask me to stop breathing.

“I’m not.”

“Little liar.”

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