Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 30889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 154(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 154(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
Instead, I’m wide awake and ridiculously excited to be heading to a mattress warehouse at the edge of the city.
When I arrive, I scan the parking lot for Derek’s truck, spotting it at the edge of the lot. He’s here first, and my nerves spike, since I’ll see him any second.
I should not be nervous to shop for a freaking mattress. Not a date, not a date. If I tell myself that enough, it might make it true.
As I head inside, I try to approach this like a game. I’m not nervous on the field. I know how to play. I anticipate, I react, I perform.
But those guidelines don’t apply when I open the door to find Derek waiting inside.
My heart stutters. It’s unfair how I react to him.
Somehow, he’s even more handsome than the night of the rescue dog fundraiser. He wore a suit then. Now he’s wearing shorts and a navy polo shirt that hugs his chest. And does funny things to mine.
Did he also dress like this is a date?
Don’t go there.
“Hey Adam, did you make a list of all your mattress requirements?” he says in that dry amused tone.
Like that, my nerves vanish.
“As a matter of fact, I did,” I say, striding over to him.
He claps my shoulder. A friendly gesture, but my breath catches.
“Let’s see it,” he says, standing next to me. So close, I can smell his cologne. That rainwater scent that transfers to his sheets. Right, I need to stop thinking about Derek in bed. Which would be easier if we weren’t in a mattress store. I grab my phone, click on my notes, and show him the specs I detailed: degree of firmness, density of cushioning, and the number and gauge of coils. My ideal bed.
Well, my ideal bed, minus one element: Derek.
“What do you think?” I look at him, trying to school my expression so my face doesn’t say I miss you so much.
His blue eyes sparkle. “I think that sounds like a perfect bed,” he says, then he leads the way.
He weaves through the store, stopping in front of a king-size bed. He pushes his hand against it, testing the springs. “Too firm,” he declares.
“Let me try.” I press down too.
“What? You don’t trust me?” he teases.
“Just wanted to try it for myself. Can’t a guy test a mattress?”
A sly smile. “Sure. A guy can,” he says, then heads to another mattress, waving me over.
I sit at the edge of this one, testing it. It’s downright pillowy. “This one’s pretty comfortable, I say, looking up at him.
“Comfy? Didn’t see that on your list of requirements.”
“It was implied,” I say. “You know, the way your bed is.”
“You liked my…bed?” he asks, voice pitching up with hope.
I liked his bed, yeah, but I liked what it represented. Being with him. I miss that so much I can feel the missing in my bones. I pat the mattress, suddenly feeling bolder than I expected. “I did like your bed,” I say quietly.
“Good,” he says firmly, like he’s making a declaration. I hear what he doesn’t say—he liked me in it. The way I liked being in it.
The mattress dips as Derek sits next to me, and I’m struck with how right this feels. Him, here. Us, together.
Not just on a bed. But on the couch. At home.
It all felt right. All those times we spent together felt right.
“It is comfortable,” he says, but he frowns. “Maybe too comfortable. A good mattress needs to be a little firm to stand up to . . .” He turns a slight, un-Derek red. “Well, so you can get some mileage out of it.”
He pops back up and offers me a hand. That is so couple-y. And I love it. I lift my hand to take his, but he jerks his hand back right away. Like he realized his faux pas.
But I saw his intention.
Even when he clears his throat and weaves to another section of the store. As I watch him walk, I try to hold on to the reasons for resisting that felt vital a day ago.
He’s my teammate.
I should focus on the game.
My life has changed radically in the past few months. All weighed against Derek offering me his hand in a mattress store. I want to take it.
Touching him, connecting with him—that’s all that mattered in the moment. Maybe it’ll stop mattering any second, but when he finds the next mattress, and flops down on it, my heart gallops.
I want this.
But it’s not just the bed or the sex.
It’s him.
All my reasons are good ones. Levelheaded and thorough and nice. I flash back to the first night in Phoenix. To him kneeling on the floor. When he demanded I tell him what I wanted. Even after a few hours of knowing me he could tell that I sometimes have trouble articulating that.