Page 65 of Where Happiness Begins
The mantra becomes a little harder to believe when Carter comes out of the shower ten minutes later, steam billowing behind him, his hair still wet, chest on almost full display as he steps through the room in black boxer briefs and a damp white shirt that hugs every single line of his body.
I stop breathing.
I try to look anywhere but at the delicate water droplets running down the tight column of his neck or at the shadow of hair on his stomach that reminds me of our time in my bedroom, whereI got to feel it, even briefly. My entire body becomes aflame as I fail to tear my eyes away, tracing the contour of his narrow hips with my gaze. Even when he catches me staring, I’m frozen in place. What’s worse, he doesn’t move away as if…as if hewantsme to keep looking.
“All right, my turn,” I say after clearing my throat and forcing myself to look at my toes. I’m careful not to brush him as I walk over to the bathroom, but it doesn’t matter; the damage is done. As I turn the shower on and wash my hair, I can only think of Carter being naked here a few minutes ago, and I’m hot and bothered all over again. This was a bad idea. I should’ve let him be grumpy and ask for separate rooms, no matter what.
It’s stupid. We’ve shared a bathroom before. We’ve shared ahousefor months. And yet this feels so much more intimate. Like there’s no escaping each other.
Once I’m done and have dried myself, I put on the PJs I brought with me and immediately regret them. They’re a set of tiny shorts and tank top, which was fine when I was alone in my bunk, but not so much when I’m sharing a room with the guy I’m supposed to pretend I feel nothing toward. It’s even worse when I walk out of the bathroom and the AC hits me with the force of a blizzard, sending shivers down my arms as my nipples tighten under my tight top.
Fuck me.
I cross my arms to cover myself the best I can and make my way toward the bed, jumping under the covers. Carter’s now wearing a hoodie, thank God, so for that, I’ll forgive the factthat he’s not wearing pants over his boxers—who knew calves could be so freaking erotic? All those lines of tight muscle… He’s seated on the edge of the bed as if ready to jump at the first chance.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Mm-hmm.”
I don’t miss the double take he does when he sees me, and I’ve never regretted my choice of clothes this much before, especially with how freaking cold it is here.
Carter’s gaze traces my bare arms for a second longer before he gets up and goes to mess with the things in his bag. I pull out my phone and start messing with some of the pictures I took today. Some will make for great content.
“Here.”
I look up to find Carter holding out a sweater. It’s one I’ve seen him wear to sleep a few times, black with an almost erased printed logo, and I always thought it looked comfortable.
I slowly take it, running my fingers over the overwashed material that’s become soft from its thinness. Then I lift a brow at him.
“You’re always cold,” he says casually as if this is the most normal thing in the world.The human body is made of 206 bones. The Declaration of Independence was signed in 1776. Lilianne DiLorenzo always gets cold.
“What?” he says, probably wondering why I’m looking at him like he’s grown another head, and it might be the shadows playing tricks on my eyes, but I’d swear pink colors his cheeks.
He needs to stop. If I want this stupid infatuation to disappear so I can make it out of this fake marriagealive, he can’t continue being this thoughtful. I’m starting to fantasize about things I have no business wishing for.
But I must be a real dummy because I still put on his sweater, knowing damn well I’ll never want to take it off. His smell envelops me like a crisp early spring morning, and yes, this is definitely mine now.
“Thank you.”
“Sure,” he says, then stands there, staring at me while I pull my hair out of the neck of the sweater and settle back in bed.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says, still not moving.
I open the covers on the other side of the bed. “Stop acting like a prudish seventeenth-century woman and just get into bed already.” When hestilldoesn’t budge, I add, “I won’t jump you, don’t worry.”
He mutters something unintelligible as he finally gets into bed, keeping as much distance as physically possible.
I must stink. Or maybe he does think I’ll get all over him if he gets too close. Am I that threatening?
I spend the next hour working while Carter pulls out his sudoku book like an eighty-five-year-old and finally seems to relax. Then, when 10:00 p.m. hits, my phone vibrates, a pill emoji appearing on the screen.
I get up and grab all the medication I need to take at night while attempting to make the least amount of noise possible, then I walk back to bed, where my water bottle is waiting.
“You ready for bed?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Carter says, putting his book on the bedside table, and then I turn the lights off. I take advantage of the complete darkness before our eyes have gotten used to it to swallow all my pills in one go, then gulp a few sips of water and join Carter in bed.
