Page 37 of No Room in the Inn

Only to see Nixon leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, looking supremely amused and self-satisfied.

Chapter 18

Willow

Let me die. Let me die right now. Let the earth swallow me whole and bury me.

No, that’s not far enough away. Let the earth swallow me whole, bury me, and spit me out again somewhere on the other side of the globe. China, maybe.

Yeah. China sounds good. Or maybe New Zealand. I’ve always wanted to go there.

I glare at Nixon, trying to somehow will my cheeks not to turn red. “Eavesdropping is rude,” I say.

“Hmm,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “Is it eavesdropping if you were just talking so loudly that I couldn’tnothear?”

“Yes,” I say, my voice flat.

He straightens up and saunters into my room. “Because at first I wasn’t trying to listen.”

“Oh, yeah?” I say. I gesture at him. “So at what point did you end up standing silently in the doorway like a stalker? And by all means, please come in,” I add sarcastically under my breath.

What I really want to know is how much of my conversation he heard, but no way can I ask. It will be embarrassing no matter what, anyway; even if he were only there for a few seconds, he still would have heard Sarah’s implication that I’ve been talking about his attractiveness.

Which, you know, I have. But I don’t wanthimto know that. I’d rather not even think about what else he might have heard. And Sarah was on speaker the whole time!

Nixon goes on as though I haven’t said a word. “But then it started getting good, and I couldn’t resist.” This last little bit is said with a smirk that I’d love nothing more than to wipe away with a high five to the face.

What was I thinking when I said he was nice? I was wrong. He is not nice. Although judging by the smug little smile playing at his lips, he thinks he’s all that and a bag of chips.

He is not all that. He is not even a bag of chips.

“Get out,” I say, reaching for the pillow nearest me and tossing it at Nixon. He catches it easily and strides further into the room, placing the pillow neatly back on the bed. Then he sits next to me—not so close our thighs are touching, but close enough to make me unaccountably nervous.

“So,” he says, looking utterly at his leisure.

I hate how at-ease he seems. If I’m suffering because of his proximity, the least he could do is suffer too.

“You weren’t expecting me to be nice, huh?” he says, placing one hand over his heart. “That hurts.”

I nearly groan but manage to hold it in. “When I asked you to leave my property, you flat out refused. Plus you were all snarky. What was I supposed to think?”

He shrugs, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Never judge a book by its cover and all that.”

“I’m not convinced,” I mutter, even though I said the opposite not ten minutes ago.

Nixon gives me a nudge with his elbow, and when I look over at him, he’s grinning. “You think I’m nice,” he says.

“Ugh,” I say, rolling my eyes. I look away from him, because my traitorous lips are trying to smile without my permission. “I don’t like you.”

“And I don’t like you,” he says solemnly. He nudges me again. “You’ve thought about kissing me.”

“All right,” I say, jumping up from the bed so quickly it will probably seem like I was electrocuted. “You can go now.”

“Don’t feel bad about it,” Nixon says, grinning more widely. “I have this effect on all women.”

He shows no signs of leaving, so I grab his arm and drag him off the bed until he’s standing in front of me. I then begin pushing him toward the door. It’s not easy; he seems determined to move at his own speed.

“I just have that mystery factor that women love,” he goes on. I push harder on his back, definitely not getting distracted by all the muscles I feel.

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