Page 7 of The One Bed Rule
Claire lifts the flute and I carefully pour the bubbly wine. I fill it up, a little more than what’s probably acceptable, and the bubbles quickly rise to the top of the glass. Claire puts it to her lips, slurping the top so it doesn’t overflow.
“Hey! Too much.” I can hear the smile in her voice as I put the wine back in the chiller.
I pick up my clothes and walk into the bathroom, turning over my shoulder and remarking, “There’s no such thing when it comes to champagne.”
The words are a reflex. Something I used to say in what feels like a previous life. They catch both of us off guard, for probablyverydifferent ways.
Before I can say anything else that brings me too far down memory lane, I shut the bathroom door and turn on the shower.
Seven
Claire
The champagne tastes like nerves—sharp, fizzy, a little too dry. It dances over my tongue in a way that feels mocking, like it knows why I’m drinking it. I take another sip anyway, the chilled glass almost slippery in my fingers.
The shower’s still running and I’m having a hard time not thinking about how Seth is in there. Naked. Water running over his muscles.
Claire. Quit it. Think about something else.
My hands run over the comforter, heavy and cozy, perfect for the cooler months. I lean back, checking in with my body, noting how comfortable it is. Thank god. I couldn’t handle the travel day we had then having to sleep on something like a soft version of a rock.
The bed. Singular. One. Just one. Maybe if I wish hard enough, it will split in two. I stare at it, waiting for it to suddenly sprout a polite little sign reading, “Don’t worry, he’ll take the floor!” I’d be next level asshole if I asked him to sleep on the floor, consideringhe went through the same amount of stress. Plus, if I'm being honest, I don’t think I want him to.
That’s the problem.
I cross my legs and uncross them again, tugging at the hem of the lingerie that isn’t warm in the slightest. This would be perfect for Miami, but tonight? Not so much. Even with the shifting and tugging, my skin is on display and I’m cursing my light packing. It was going to be a quick trip, only a few days—our stylists had everything waiting for me for the events so I didn’t have to bring much of anything. Jokes on me as I wear practically nothing, nervously listening for signs that Seth’s done with his shower.
A positive is how much I adore this lingerie. It’s from my favorite designer and it’s the perfect blend of a delicate and stunning lace pattern with matching silk panties underneath. My hands rub down my thighs, pressing into the tight muscles and relishing in how good I feel in this.
The water cuts off. My stomach flips even though it has no business doing so.Chill out. Knock it off. Be professional.This is a man you have to sort of work with.
I stare at the empty glass on the end table, willing it to magically fill again. I’m too afraid to get up and have to rapidly cover my ass if Seth comes out.
I can hear him toweling off. The low hum of his voice as he mutters something to himself. His laugh—quiet, surprised, like he remembered something funny. I want to ask what it was.
Which is ridiculous. We barely know each other. We’ve crossed paths and been in the same place while working, but we’ve never had a serious conversation.
The bathroom door creaks open, and I look up.
He steps out in nothing but a pair of low-slung black athletic shorts, his skin still damp and glistening. Water beads trail down the sculpted lines of his torso—shoulders broad, chest firm, abs so sharply defined they almost look carved. There’s a tattoo justunder his ribs on the left side, a glimpse of dark ink I can’t quite see all of from here.
His hair is wet and messy, pushed back like he ran a hand through it, but a few strands fall forward over his forehead. He slings the towel around his neck and catches me staring. I look up, too slow to be subtle.
His eyes find mine—dark, unreadable—but there’s something there, something quieter than his usual smirk. And I swear, for a split second, he looks just as unsure as I feel but almost as if he’s loving this.
I try to swallow past the sudden desert that’s taken up residence in my throat, but it’s like my entire nervous system just declared a state of emergency. Did I forget how to drink? Breathe? Function as a basic human being? My tongue feels like it’s made of cotton and betrayal, and all I can think is: Please do not choke on your own spit right now. That is not the vibe.
“What?” he teases as he catches me staring.
“It’s kind of unfair.” I playfully slap the bed next to me before crossing my arms, trying to cover as much of myself as I can.
He turns his body side to side, like he’s trying to stretch, and I am still trying to figure out his tattoo.
“What’s unfair?”
I sigh out a low breath, looking up at the ceiling, scolding myself for not thinking before I speak. Why the fuck did I start talking? I’m usually much better at this. “You, looking like this. All muscles and your salt-and-pepper hair. You’re all hot and mysterious—”
“Wait, you think I'm hot?” Seth leans closer to me, cupping his ear. “Is that what I heard?”
