Page 29 of Protected from Malice
Eeep.
No kissing. Rafe’s a friend. That’s it.
“I don’t want to sleep,” I admit. “I don’t think I could, honestly. Not yet.”
“Eden.”
“I was thinking… maybe we could just watch TV? Not a cooking show, but one of those weird documentaries you like? And you could sit here”—I pat the empty spot beside me—“instead of on the floor? We could call the guy at the front desk and ask him to raid the vending machine for us since we never had dinner.”
Rafe glances at the television, then back to me again. “Are you sure?”
“Unless you don’t want to.”
Rafe hesitates.
Long enough for me to worry he’s about to reject my idea.
Then he gets off the bed, and my stomach plummets.
It shouldn’t matter this much. I know it shouldn’t.
“Nevermind,” I add quickly. “It’s fine. I’ll just… watch something on my phone. Forget I said anything.”
“Brain.” Rafe’s hand rests on my shoulder again. His gaze flickers with an unreadable expression. “I don’t want to forget it. That sounds like a great idea.”
He grabs the remote from the bedside table and takes it with him as he rounds the bed and settles onto the other side of the mattress. It dips with his weight as he stretches out his legs and leans back against the headboard. Then he grabs a pillow and gives it a quick shake before shoving it behind his back.
With a small smile, he asks, “So you want to watch one of my weird documentaries instead of your cooking shows?”
“I watch cooking all the time,” I reply. “It’s fine. But some of the shows you watch are really intriguing. Like that one about the cheese rolling in England. Or the people who dance with their dogs.”
Smile expanding, he chuckles. “I seem to recall you and Indy making fun of me for the dog dancing episode. Offering to buy me a dog if I thought it was so interesting.”
My lips twitch. “I still stand by my claim that you’d be really good at it. You could get a big dog, like a Great Dane or a Newfoundland, so they’d match your size.”
Rafe bursts out laughing. “You want me to do interpretive dances with a Newfoundland?”
“Or a Cane Corso,” I offer. “They’re not quite as big.”
Shaking his head, he jabs a button on the remote to turn the television on. “I’m not going to start competing in dog dancing, Eden. Or fling myself down a hill chasing after a wheel of cheese. Just in case that’s your next idea.”
“You’d probably be good at it. Although—” Pausing, I give him a teasing smirk. “You might be getting a little old for stuff like that.”
“Old?” Rafe playfully pokes my side. “I’m not old.”
“I know.” I pat his arm. “You’re only six years older than me. So you can’t be old yet.”
“Five and a half years,” he corrects. “Not six. Since your birthday is in July and mine is in January.”
A little flutter of happiness takes flight in my chest.
It shouldn’t matter that he remembers when my birthday is. But it makes me feel good, just the same.
Turning his attention back to the TV, Rafe flips through the channels as he says, “Once we find something, I’ll call the front desk. Ask whoever’s there to empty out the vending machine for us.”
He pauses on a show that’s apparently about a hot pepper eating competition. “What do you think? Want to watch a bunch of people melt their mouths competing to eat the hottest peppers in the world?”
I edge closer to Rafe, until my shoulder rubs against his. “That sounds interesting.”
