Page 114 of Turnabout Is Fair Cosplay
Mike sighs. He straightens until he’s standing right in front of me. Towering over me. “You make everything ten times harder than it has to be.”
I watch his chest rise and fall. I can almost hear my pulse hammering, competing with the thud of the surf outside. His hands close around my waist. I feel my stomach turn over and my insides glow, until he unceremoniously picks me up and moves me out of his way.
And then goes back to the baseboard.
“Don’t call a locksmith. You can crash here.”
“Here?”
“Yes, here.”
“But…”
“You let me crash at your place when my AC went out. Turnabout is fair play.”
“That’s not what it means.”
“That’s exactly what it means.”
“But…where will I sleep?”
“It’s a two-bedroom house, Beatrice. Go find the unclaimed bed. We can go to the bank to get my spare key in the morning.”
I wander back to the hallway and slide open a door, flick on the light. Last time I saw this room, it looked more like a woodshop. Now it’s a tidy, if minimal, spare bedroom with a ceiling fan and queen-size bed. I shut the door quietly and open Mike’s bedroom door.
I suck in a breath. The books are still here, and there’s a flat-screen TV on top of the dresser. I run back to the other bedroom and check—no TV.
So I head back to Mike’s room. I slide open the top dresser drawer and pull out a pair of Mike’s socks and the TV remote. I grab his copy ofNorthanger Abbey, plop on his bed, turn onStarship Cruiser, and wiggle under his duvet. Oh heaven. Never in a million years would I have pegged Mike for being a thread-count snob.
I fall asleep reading Mike’s notes, brushing my finger against the pages where his blue ink and my purple ink swirl together, inhaling the smell of thyme and eucalyptus, withStarship Cruiseron in the background.
I wake up in Mike’s arms.
No, not like that, unfortunately.
He’s carrying me across the hall to the other bedroom. “Ten times harder than it has to be,” he mumbles.
“You could have just left me there.”
“No. I really couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“One, you were taking up the entire bed. Two, you were drooling.”
“I was not.”
“Three…” He slides me into the queen bed. I roll into the fetal position and nuzzle into the feather pillow. “It’s bad enough you’re in my favorite sweats.” He smooths the hair out of my face.
I huff. “This bed doesn’t have a TV or books.”
“Which won’t matter now that you’re sleeping.”
“And it’s smaller.”
“Same size as your bed in the cottage.”
“It doesn’t smell like you.”
