needs his privacy. So I assumed you wouldn’t want to—”
“Oh.” His expression softens, and he chuckles. His still holding on to my arm, but his grip has loosened. “I don’t give a damn about one night. I have plenty of privacy. You’re the one who...”
When he trails off, my defensiveness is immediately triggered. “I’m the one who what?”
“Nothing.”
“You were going to say something. What was it?”
He’s not looking me in the eye anymore. “I’ve said what I want to say. Do you want me to bring these bags in, or should we brainstorm an excuse to get out of here?”
I’m still curious and worried about his unfinished comment, but the more pressing concern is sharing a bedroom with Damian for the night. But he seems to not mind. Surely he’d tell me if it was a problem for him.
And despite what he assumed, it’s not a problem for me. Not really. After all, we’re both adults. We’re reasonably mature. We can work through any awkwardness that might result.
I don’t want to be the one to sound the retreat on this. It would feel like a defeat.
“Clarke?”
“It’s fine,” I say, resolute now that I’ve worked through the problem. “Let’s just do this.”
THE GUEST BEDROOM IS a pleasant, homey space with big windows overlooking the yard, a built-in window seat, and a blue-and-white quilt on the big bed. It’s as peaceful and harmless as a room can be, but the sight of the one bed makes me quake inside.
I keep the quaking to myself. No need for anyone else to see it.
My mother stays long enough to get us settled in the room, and then she and Pop say good night and close the door behind them.
It’s only nine, but my mom is going home and Pop is obviously headed for bed.
I feel a little better once they’ve left us alone. Now it’s only Damian I need to worry about.
He’s standing next to the small desk where he laid his saddlebag. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks at the ground.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was nervous, but that doesn’t make any sense. Damian doesn’t get nervous, and he certainly wouldn’t about a situation like this.
I’m the one with hang-ups and issues. The one who’ll work herself into mental knots for no good reason if there’s even a chance of unexpected intimacy.
He’s never been like that.
The only thing to do when I feel this way is take charge of the emotional mess in my mind. Show it who’s boss.
So I take out my tablet and go to sit in the window seat. “I’m going to catch up on messages for a while.”
“Okay.” He stands still for another minute; then his hands come out of his pockets. “I might grab a quick shower. I feel kind of...”
When he doesn’t finish the sentence, I glance up.
“Hot,” he says, seeing me waiting.
I nod since that’s a perfectly reasonable and natural condition. I focus vigorously on the messages that have come in throughout the day and attempt to ignore what Damian’s doing.
He opens his overnight bag. Pulls out a toiletry case and some clothes. It looks like a T-shirt and pajama pants. Then he heads to the connected bathroom and closes the door behind him.
I’m still pretending not to pay attention to him, but I know he glanced over at me a few times in the minute or two it took for him to disappear into the bathroom.
It should feel safer now that he’s not in the room with me, but it doesn’t. I can hear him moving around in there. The toilet flush. The water in the sink. Then the shower turn on.
And now I’m picturing him naked. I’ve never seen him that way of course, but I’ve got a pretty good imagination. I can visualize what he might look like, naked and virile and soaked by the shower spray.
Water running all down his tight skin.
Shit. This is no good. I can’t sit here fantasizing like this. For one thing, he’s not likely to be very long in the shower. For another, I have no way of relieving the tension if I turn myself on with daydreams about him.
It takes a ridiculous amount of mental effort, but I manage to shift my mind from those tantalizing thoughts.
I make my way through my inbox. I chat with Steve for a few minutes through private message. I don’t picture Damian in the shower again.