“Absolutely.”

He dropped his keys on the dresser and started to unbutton his rain-soaked shirt like this was no big deal. Like sharing a room—a bed—with his worst floral nightmare was just another Wednesday night.

I spun around. “Whoa. Hello. Changing over there?”

He didn’t even look up. “I’m not sleeping in wet clothes.”

“Still. A little warning next time before you start peeling layers like a thunderstorm-themed strip show.”

He chuckled under his breath, and I tried really hard not to notice the way his abs looked like they belonged in a firefighter calendar.

Focus, Ruby.

This was a temporary situation.

A weather-induced fluke.

I tossed my tote bag on the floor and flopped onto the bed dramatically, ignoring the flutter in my stomach.

We’d get through this night.

We had to.

As long as I didn’t strangle him first.


“So,” I said, arms crossed, toe tapping against the floral rug like it might explode from sheer awkward energy. “How do you feel about pillow barricades?”

Damien stood at the foot of the bed, hands on his hips, eyes scanning the room like he was calculating the distance between the mattress and the moral high ground. He looked like a man facing war, not goose-down throw pillows.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” he said finally.

I snorted. “Onthat?” I pointed to the wooden planks beneath us. “Those are original floorboards. Probably older than Marge. You’ll wake up crankier than usual—and that’s saying something.”

“I’ve slept in worse conditions.”

“Sure. And tomorrow you’ll walk into the gala meeting shaped like a question mark.” I plucked a pillow labeledLet’s Cuddleoff the bed and flung it to the side. “Look. We’re adults. Rational human beings. This bed is big enough to avoid accidental limb contact.”

He arched a brow. “You say that like it’s a guarantee.”

“We’ll build a wall,” I said, grabbing more pillows. “Like a fortress of fluff. You stay on your side; I stay on mine. Neutral territory in between.”

“You make it sound like a Cold War.”

“If the Cold War had a fire-lit inn, a traitor mattress, and me trying not to kick you in my sleep—then yeah. Exactly.”

To my surprise, the corner of his mouth tugged upward in the tiniest almost-smile. Not full-blown. But close enough that I sawthe ghost of dimples before he masked it with his usual granite expression.

“Fine,” he said. “We split the bed.”

“And the pillows,” I added. “Fifty-fifty.”

He nodded. “No crossing the DMZ.”

“Deal.”