I was settling on twenty-seven types of fool when Hank spoke. “I think I prefer you talking.”
“I’m sleepy,” I lied.
“You’re thinking and the way your mind works, that’s probably not a good thing.”
“You don’t know the way my mind works,” I told him.
“You’ve talked yourself into thinking al igators are cute.”
“I didn’t talk myself into it. Have you looked at an al igator? They are cute.”
His body moved with laughter.
“And owls are cute,” I went on, nonsensical y, ignoring his laughter, or more likely, because of his laughter. “I’ve always wanted to own an owl. Like Florence Nightingale.
She carried one in her pocket.”
His body kept moving, except I could tel instinctively the laughter had turned deeper.
Then a thought struck me and I got up on an elbow. “Hey, are you related to her?”
I felt his eyes on me in the dark. “Not that I know of.” I settled back down and put my head on his shoulder.
“Oh.”
He rol ed into me and I fel to my back.
His hand went into my hair at the side of my head.
“Are you real y sleepy?” he asked.
I wasn’t. I was wide-awake and scared out of my wits.
“Um,” I answered.
“Because if you want to talk, we got shit to talk about.”
“I’m sleepy,” I said immediately.
His hand slid out of my hair, down my neck, between my br**sts and down, to circle my waist. Then, he pul ed me into him.
“We’l talk tomorrow,” he said.
I pushed in closer.
I pushed in closer.
I wasn’t going to think about it. Not then. Maybe not ever.
I wrapped my arms around him and he held me close.
After a few minutes, I whispered, “Hank?”
“Yeah?”
I pressed my face into his throat.
“Thanks for tonight.”