Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 66865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
“What the hell is wrong with you? Give me back that blanket—I’m not wearing any pants!”
Now I’m the one who’s disgruntled. “You’re cold so you took off your leggings? Where’s the logic in that?”
“Stop talking before I murder you!”
She is so loud when she’s fired up. “I don’t feel sorry for you anymore. Throw your leggings back on and come warm me up.”
“I hate you right now.”
“No you don’t—admit it, you’re relieved I came to rescue you.”
“This is stupid,” she bickers, dragging her feet across the threshold to my room. “We could have gone to my apartment and actually had a decent night’s sleep.”
Pfft. “And risk the chance of molestation by Mariah? No thanks. I’d rather freeze my testicles off.”
Besides, no way would I fit in her bed. Or on her couch.
Her laughter rings out, accenting the sound of her bare feet padding toward my room across the carpet. “That sounds like a definite possibility.”
I toss the extra comforter atop mine and whip back the covers, climbing into my side while she hobbles down the hallway corridor, hopping into her tight bottoms.
Struggle bus, jeez.
“Hurry up, dude.”
I’m almost positive she’s glaring daggers in my direction. “You did not just call me dude.”
“I did. Climb in, slowpoke.”
“Hold your horses—your bed is like, five feet off the ground. I can’t deal with this at one in the morning.” I watch in the shadows, across the mattress, as Teddy attempts to hoist herself off the ground, up onto my California king. “This is way too much work.”
“I’m tall—what did you expect? A mini twin?”
“No, but…maybe. I don’t know anyone with a bed like this.”
“Then you should get out more.”
She finally makes it up, sliding in under the covers and pulls them over her body, leggings back in place, toes rooting their way around underneath the sheets.
In my direction.
“Please don’t touch me with those,” I warn.
“Why?” She sounds whiney. “You let me do it before on the couch.”
“Because you’re a brute and made me let you.”
“They’ll warm up in no time if you let me just…” I feel her toes hit the side of my calf muscle.
I pull it back. “This isn’t a slumber party, Theodora.”
“You think this is what girls do at slumber parties? Tickle each other with their toes?” She laughs. “You are so far off. Besides, I wouldn’t be in here if you had heat. So this is your fault.”
True. “What do girls do at slumber parties?”
“Uh…talk about boys, eat, and watch chick flicks, mostly.”
“That sounds really fucking boring.”
Another musical little laugh comes trilling out of the dark. “Whatever, Kip. Let me stick my feet under you.”
“No way. Get away.” My protests are getting weak, mostly because it’s her, and I find her pretty fucking adorable.
“Well then move closer—you said you were going to share body heat with me. Don’t be a liar, Kipling.”
I haven’t been in bed with or lain next to a girl in—I do a mental tally of the weeks, months—years. A long fucking time is what it adds up to, and I can’t stop my body from reacting to Teddy being under my covers. Smelling her perfume. Breathing the same air. Wanting to share heat.
Body heat.
Shit, this was my dumb idea—what the hell was I thinking?
I wasn’t.
I didn’t expect this to be a big deal. Share blankets, stay warm—simple, easy. Any idiot could do this without a problem.
I should be able to do this without a problem; I’ve been keeping people at a distance for years. I friend-zoned Teddy within seconds of meeting her, and she has no interest in me, either.
Except…
Maybe I’ve been fooling myself.
Maybe I’m not as immune to women as I thought I was. Or maybe I’m just not immune to Teddy Johnson—sweet, beautiful, naïve Teddy.
Maybe I knew as soon as I saw her at that first party that we’d end up here. Because she’s different.
She yawns beside me, nestling her toes deeper into the crux of my bent legs, their temperature having climbed twofold.
I don’t exactly hate it.
“You don’t think it’s weird that we’re in bed together?” Her question comes out of nowhere.
“Why would I think it’s weird?”
“Uh, because it’s weird? We’re not even friends—not really. And we’re not dating, but you have this weird…” Pause. “I know you’re protective of me, and I can’t figure out why, but I also know I don’t hate it, either. It’s…nice.”
Right.
“I just didn’t think I’d ever be in some guy’s bed platonically, that’s all. College guys are such pigs sometimes.”
“I’m not a pig.”
“I know you’re not—that’s what I’m saying. Sometimes it’s confusing. You’re not gay, but you don’t date, and you’re not sleeping with anyone. You must spend a lot of time…you know.”
The word she’s looking for here is masturbating.
“Don’t you?” I’m curious. “Spend time doing that?”
“No!” She’s shocked.
“Why?”
“I don’t know how? God, Kip.” The answer—which is in the form of a both a question and a confession—comes out halted. “I can’t believe I just said that. I must be delirious.”