Page 10 of A Mountain Man Walks into a Library

But the thing is, I only ever get to see the reserved, buttoned-down, professional Remy Lacross. I only see him at the library. He’s never even crossed my path at the grocery store or the gas station, and Granite-Glacier is tiny. What are the odds that wehaven’trun into each other at least once in a casual setting?

So, getting to see Remy all flustered and nervous? I amliving.

The four of us spend hours playing the board game, which mostly means handing each other tiles emblazoned with wheat and bricks. But Remy and his dad tease each other with friendly jabs and obviously old inside jokes, while his mom and I trade affectionate glances with each other. Remy wins by earning something called “the longest road,” though I’m not entirely convinced that his dad didn’t throw the game for the birthday boy.

And then it’smyturn to feel deeply uncomfortable.

Because, as Remy and his dad lovingly pack up the game, his mom turns to me and asks, “Are you staying, Sam?”

Remy fumbles the robber token and it clatters across the hardwood floor, skittering under the couch.

Before I can say anything, his mom fixes me with a warm, genuine smile and says, “You’re more than welcome.”

“It’smyhouse,” Remy says, exasperated.

“And I am yourmother,” she answers and then turns back to me, shaking her head. “Really, Sam. Stay. You won’t shock us.”

That’s how we end up in Remy’s room, the door shut, the two of us standing on either side of his narrow twin bed.

“So,” Remy says, frowning at me across the mattress.

“So,” I answer. And then, because I apparently left my brain back in the living room where Marjorie Lacross suggested I get into bed with her son, I press both palms to the mattress and give it a few firm bounces. The springs sing out loud enough to compete with the peepers. Remy winces, his eyes screwed shut.

“Sorry,” I say.

Remy shrugs and holds up his hands. Then his face darkens into something more serious. I fidget with the hem of my shirt.

“You really don’t have to stay. Really. I shouldn’t have let it go this far. If you want, I will happily escort you out to your truck. I know my parents can be—”

“Your parents are great,” I interrupt him, trying to keep my voice low. “And if it makes them happy this weekend for you to have a little sleepover, then what’s the harm in that?”

Remy narrows his eyes at me like he’s an expert at assessing harm. And then a sound drifts in from the living room, through our closed door: the soft, musical sound of his mother’s laughter at something his dad said. He sighs.

“Okay,” he says. Then, needlessly, “The bed’s small. Sorry.”

I lead the way because Remy seems frozen in place. I strip down to my T-shirt and boxers, folding my jeans neatly to set them on a chair, and then I slide under the covers. The bedissmall, and my body takes up most of the room. So I turn on my side, facing Remy, and pat the mattress.

“Come on,” I say, “it’s going to be fine.”

Remy watches me, his pale blue eyes wide with worry, and then he nods a few times more than is strictly normal. I look away while he undresses. It’s his house, and he must have pajamas here, but he mirrors my behavior and leaves on his T-shirt and boxers too. Then his knee presses to the mattress, his weight dipping it, and he crawls into bed.

He turns his back to me so we’re both on our sides, making the most of the narrow mattress.

Carefully, I let my hand hover over his waist. There’s nowhere else for me to put my arm, and I ask, “Is this okay?”

Remy nods again, just once this time, and I drape my arm over his waist. I think I hear him sigh. He’s a tall guy, but he’s rail-thin except for his arms which have an attractive definition that I try not to stare at every time I see him lugging books around at the library. But the rest of him is slim, and he fits so neatly into the bend of my arm.

Involuntarily, I tighten my grip.

“Sam,” Remy breathes. He sounds raspy in the dark here, as if the words have been grinding around inside him all day. “You didn’t have to—”

“Don’t mention it,” I interrupt him. I keep doing that, and I’m usually a very polite guy. But it’s like, if I can stop him from telling me to go, I’ll get to stay. “Really. It’s nice getting to spend some time with you. Outside of the library, I mean.”

This will end Sunday evening when Remy’s parents leave. We’ll talk about it, or we won’t. Laugh about what a silly few days we had, or not. I don’t know. But I know it will end, and I’m not ready to live in that future yet. Not when I have Remy right here with me, right now.

I tighten my arm around his waist but make sure my hand is pressed flat to the mattress. Being snuggled up close is a necessity in his narrow bed. That doesn’t mean I’m invited to fondle him, and I want him to know that I plan to respect that boundary.

“Let’s just...have a good sleep, all right?” I ask, trying to keep the roughness out of my voice. “I just want to sleep here next to you.”

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