My face flames, and St. Clair’s cheeks grow blotchy. It’s true. It’s a rule. One that my brain—my rule-loving, rule-abiding brain—conveniently blocked last night. It’s also one notoriously ignored by the staff.
“No, Nate,” we say.
He shakes his shaved head and goes back in his apartment. But the door opens quickly again, and a handful of something is thrown at us before it’s
slammed back shut.
Condoms. Oh my God, how humiliating.
St. Clair’s entire face is now bright red as he picks the tiny silver squares off the floor and stuffs them into his coat pockets. We don’t speak, don’t even look at each other, as we climb the stairs to my floor. My pulse quickens with each step. will he fol ow me to my room, or has Nate ruined any chance of
that?
We reach the landing, and St. Clair scratches his head. “Er ...”
“So ...”
“I’m going to get dressed for bed. Is that all right?” His voice is serious, and he watches my reaction careful y.
“Yeah. Me too. I’m going to . . . get ready for bed, too.”
“See you in a minute?”
I swel with relief. “Up there or down here?”
“Trust me, you don’t want to sleep in my bed.” He laughs, and I have to turn my face away, because I do, holy crap do I ever. But I know what he means.
It’s true my bed is cleaner. I hurry to my room and throw on the strawberry pajamas and an Atlanta Film Festival shirt. It’s not like I plan on seducing him.
Like I’d even know how.
St. Clair knocks a few minutes later, and he’s wearing his white bottoms with the blue stripes again and a black T-shirt with a logo I recognize as the
French band he was listening to earlier. I’m having trouble breathing.
“Room service,” he says.
My mind goes . . . blank. “Ha ha,” I say weakly.
He smiles and turns off the light. We climb into bed, and it’s absolutely positively completely awkward. As usual. I rol over to my edge of the bed. Both of us are stiff and straight, careful not to touch the other person. I must be a masochist to keep putting myself in these situations. I need help. I need to see a shrink or be locked in a padded cel or straitjacketed or something.
After what feels like an eternity, St. Clair exhales loudly and shifts. His leg bumps into mine, and I flinch. “Sorry,” he says.
“It’s okay.”
“...”
“...”
“Anna?”
“Yeah?
“Thanks for letting me sleep here again. Last night ...”
The pressure inside my chest is torturous. What? What what what?
“I haven’t slept that well in ages.”